Friday, November 15, 2013

porous, supple

I have a feeling I've posted this Jane Hirshfield poem before, though if that's true, I can't find it. So here it is...for the first time, or the second. It's the one I reached for...that returned...that jumped off the page. It's a continuation of my exploration of porousness. (Other words for it, according to my computer's flimsy thesaurus: permeablepenetrableperviouscellularholey, absorbentabsorptive.) Being a mother will make you all of those things. My children are, I think, just like this stag, passing through. Happy November morning, all. 

The Supple Deer

The quiet opening

between fence strands
perhaps eighteen inches. 

Antlers to hind hooves,

four feet off the ground,
the deer poured through. 

No tuft of the coarse white belly hair left behind. 

I don't know how a stag turns

into a stream, an arc of water. 
I have never felt such accurate envy. 

Not of the deer:

To be that porous, to have such largeness pass through me. 

-Jane Hirshfield (Come, Thief)