Poem Holding Its Heart In One Fist
By Jane Hirshfield
Each pebble in this world keeps
its own counsel.
Certain words--these, for instance--
may be keeping a pronoun hidden.
Perhaps the lover's you
or the solipsist's I.
Perhaps the philosopher's willowy it.
The concealment plainly delights.
Even a desk will gather
its clutch of secret, half-crumpled papers,
eased slowly, over years,
behind the backs of drawers.
Olives adrift in the altering brine-bath
etch onto their innermost pits
a few furrowed salts that will never be found by the tongue.
Yet even with so much withheld,
so much unspoken,
potatoes are cooked with butter and parsley,
and buttons affixed to their sweater.
Invited guests arrive, then dutifully leave.
And this poem, afterward, washes its breasts
with soap and trembling hands, disguising nothing.
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Yet again it was a magnificent 75-degree day, though I spent quite a bit of it waiting for the dentist and then having my teeth cleaned, which is not the sexiest of activities
Came home and took younger son to violin while the sky got so dark it looked like it would storm, but after a bit of rain it cleared up completely and though I planned to pick older son up from the bus stop, he had already walked home. Watched a KT Tunstall concert from a Soundstage rerun,
...and in the shallows...
...and doing what cats do best. That is, birds.
Not talking about the news these days, BTW, because it either depresses me or makes me furious, and I just don't have the energy to rehash it. If no one is moving to impeach the bastards, what can I do but rant? Had better go to bed, as
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