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.
The only way down is down, leaving the light for the dark, allowing the surface…
Like King David, they have drunk the wine of astonishment. Mouths open wide, they lean…
Starting here, what do you want to remember? How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?…
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