Jane Hirshfield Poems
|3.||This Was Once a Love Poem||7/3/2015|
|6.||The Heat of Autumn||1/22/2016|
|7.||A Person Protests to Fate||5/26/2015|
|8.||To Judgment: An Assay||12/2/2015|
|16.||A Blessing For Wedding||2/3/2015|
|20.||The Heart's Counting Knows Only One||5/23/2013|
I was walking again
in the woods,
a yellow light
was sifting all I saw.
with a cold heart,
I took a stick,
lifted it to the opposite side
of the path.
There, I said to myself,
that's done now.
Brushing one hand against the other,
to clean them
of the tiny fragments of bark.
A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.
Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.
A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,