A thing too perfect to be remembered:
stone beautiful only when wet.
Find the gleam again or try:
the moment in which moments lived.
What can be said at all?
each of us have our own dead.
A rock can be rinsed, coated with varnish:
in the face of elusive experience,
Some so evaporative it can only be lived:
listen in the right spirit to those warm voices.
Too much longing:
it separates us
like scent from bread,
like rust from iron.
The very old, hands curling into themselves, remember their parents.
Think assailable thoughts, or be lonely.
The thoughts, comments, and lines of Jane Hirshfield.
