Stars,
still pond —
all night the white geese cry out
in your hand.
all night the white geese cry out
in your hand.
A
N
M
A
Y
Coming,
my eyes open.
How suddenly black
the tree trunks look in the rain.
How suddenly black
the tree trunks look in the rain.
Night quiets,
cools.
Even now, two boats on a single mooring,
we rise and fall on one breath, going on.
— JANE HIRSHFIELD
back
to Yellow Silk main page
go
to next issue
click
green +
to order