The Heart’s Counting Knows Only One by Jane Hirshfield

The Heart’s Counting Knows Only One by Jane Hirshfield In Sung China, two monks friends for sixty years watched the geese pass. Where are they…

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Ripeness by Jane Hirshfield

Ripeness by Jane Hirshfield Ripeness is what falls away with ease. Not only the heavy apple, the pear, but also the dried brown strands of…

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The Task By Jane Hirshfield

The Task by Jane Hirshfield It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world. We wake into it daily — open eyes, braid hair — a…

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Rebus by Jane Hirshfield

Rebus by Jane Hirshfield You work with what you are given, the red clay of grief, the black clay of stubbornness going on after. Clay…

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The Envoy by Jane Hirshfield

The Envoy by Jane Hirshfield One day in that room, a small rat. Two days later, a snake. Who, seeing me enter, whipped the long…

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Standing Deer by Jane Hirshfield

Standing Deer by Jane Hirshfield As the house of a person in age sometimes grows cluttered with what is too loved or too heavy to…

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The Lives of the Heart by Jane Hirshfield

The Lives of the Heart by Jane Hirshfield Are ligneous, muscular, chemical. Wear birch-colored feathers, green tunnels of horse-tail reed. Wear calcified spirals, Fibonaccian spheres….

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The Weighing By Jane Hirshfield

The Weighing by Jane Hirshfield The heart’s reasons seen clearly, even the hardest will carry its whip-marks and sadness and must be forgiven. As the…

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To Hear The Falling World By Jane Hirshfield

To Hear the Falling World by Jane Hirshfield Only if I move my arm a certain way, it comes back. Or the way the light…

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Tree By Jane Hirshfield

Tree by Jane Hirshfield It is foolish to let a young redwood grow next to a house. Even in this one lifetime, you will have…

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Autumn Quince by Jane Hirshfield

Autumn Quince by Jane Hirshfield How sad they are, the promises we never return to. They stay in our mouths, roughen the tongue, lead lives…

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A Hand by Jane Hirshfield

A Hand by Jane Hirshfield A hand is not four fingers and a thumb. Nor is it palm and knuckles, not ligaments or the fat’s…

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Metempsychosis by Jane Hirshfield

Metempsychosis by Jane Hirshfield Some stories last many centuries, others only a moment. All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass, grow distant and more beautiful…

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Why Bodhidharma Went To Howard Johnson’s By Jane Hirshfield

Why Bodhidharma Went to Howard Johnson’s by Jane Hirshfield “Where is your home,” the interviewer asked him. Here. “No, no,” the interviewer said, thinking it…

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