Jane Hirshfield

Three Times My Life Has Opened

Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts
          to remember each time it enters into the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her
          leaves like a woman in love with winter, dropping the
          colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of light stays,
          like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor, or the one
          red leaf the snow releases in March.

The Adamantine Perfection of Desire

Nothing more strong
than to be helpless before desire.

No reason,
the simplified heart whispers,
the argument over,
only This.

No longer choosing anything but assent.

Its bowl scraped clean to the bottom,
the skull-bone cup no longer horrifies,
but, rimmed-in-silver, shines.

A spotted dog follows a bitch in heat.
Grey geese fly past us, crying.
The living cannot help but love the world.