By Jane Hirshfield
Again the pyrocanthus berries redden in rain
as if return were return.
It is not.
The familiar is not the thing it reminds of.
Today's yes is different from yesterday's yes.
Even no's adamance alters.
From painting to painting,
century to century,
the tipped-over copper pot spills out different light;
the cut-open beeves,
their caged and muscled display,
are on one canvas radiant, pure; obscene on another
In the end it is simple enough—
The woman of this morining's mirror
was a stranger
to the woman of last night's
the passionate dreams of the one who slept
flit empty and thin
from the one who awakens.
One woman washes her face,
another picks up the boar-bristled hairbrush
a third steps out of her slippers.
That each will die in the same bed means nothing to them.
Our one breath follows another like spotted horses,no two alike.
Black manes and white manes,they gallop.
Piebald and skewbald, eyes flashing sorrow, they too will pass.
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Saturday was much cooler than Friday, but it was still gorgeous out until the rain arrived in the evening. We had a bunch of chores to do in the morning, then Alice and Avery came over and we went to Brookside Gardens, where the leaves know it's fall even if the weather is confused, and then to Roots Market, which tragically had no Vegetarian Plus black pepper steaks though they did have excellent sharp cheddar and butterbeer.
We came back here for dinner, which included veggie burgers and lots of Halloween candy and cupcakes. Then Alice and Avery went home and Paul and I, disappointed by the Terrapins' loss, caught up on this season's first two episodes of Blindspot, which were quite enjoyable, then last week's episode of Supergirl, which was kind of over the top though I liked the music. And SNL's cameos this week are very fun.
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