By Jane Hirshfield
It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world.
We wake into it daily—open eyes, braid hair—
a robe unfurled
in rose-silk flowering, then laid bare.
And yes, it is a simple enough task
we’ve taken on,
though also vast:
from dusk to dawn,
from dawn to dusk, to praise,
and not be blinded by the praising.
To lie like a cat in the sun,
fur fully blazing,
and dream the mouse;
and to keep too the mouse’s patient, waking watch
within the deep rooms of the house,
where the leaf-flocked
sunlight never reaches, but the earth still blooms.
Copyright 1994 by Jane Hirshfield from The October Palace, (Harper Perennial) and used by kind permission of the author.
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