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.
Someone says “Good-bye” and disappears behind doors or fades into the distance in a train…
This might be the best I’ll ever feel, these aches, these pains, this deep fatigue—…
We need to separate to see the life we’ve made, to leave our house where…
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