Jane Hirshfield

I want to give myself

utterly

as the maple

that burned and burned

for three days without stinting

and then in two more

dropped off every leaf;

as this lake that,

no matter what comes

to its green-blue depths,

both takes and returns it.

In the still heart,

that refuses nothing,

the world is twice-born—

two earths wheeling,

two heavens,

two egrets reaching

down into subtraction;

even the fish

for an instant doubled,

before it is gone.

I want the fish.

I want the losing it all

when it rains and I want

the returning transparence.

I want the place

by the edge-flowers where

the shallow sand is deceptive,

where whatever

steps in must plunge,

and I want that plunging.

I want the ones

who come in secret to drink

only in early darkness,’

and I want the ones

who are swallowed.

I want the way

the water sees without eyes,

hears without ears,

shivers without will or fear

at the gentlest touch.

I want the way it

accepts the cold moonlight

and its it pass,

the way it lets

all of it pass

without judgment or comment.

There is a lake,

Lalla Ded sang, no larger

than one seed of mustard,

that all things return to.

O Heart, if you

will not, cannot, give me the lake,

then give me the song.

Thank god someone out there is updating their blog.

Kathy just returned from China, Kenzie’s going to Africa, Sarah to Fiji, and  Pesky godson’s in Syria while Goose is still enjoying his life out west.  

“Honey, smell my nightgown.”

“It smells like vomit.”

“It’s the clean one you just washed. And my other two smell like this one.”

“You think I left them in the basement too long?”

“Did you vomit on them in the basement?”

“No, and I don’t know why they smell like that. It reminds me of my shirts that one of Matt’s friend’s threw-up on. It, too, was on the laundry table and I assumed I wasn’t smelling what I was smelling. Convinced myself until I stopped for lunch and found little chunks in the pocket.”

“Would you mind washing them again, on gentle, using Ivory soap. And, please, don’t let them sit in the basement.”

**********

In memory of George Carlin from Jen.

And this from her friend.

**********

The boys have been landscaping our yard, and adding fresh lattice under the porch. . Today they edged and weeded and contoured around the Rhododendrons.

Hilary Burgin, aka La Chica, turns twenty. (I know, I could be wrong and I really should check this out with her mom.)

“Honey, please come back to me. No one will call you Mrs. Diane Canning. I promise.”

Thought bubbles:

Me : I can see Polly’s lips moving but I can’t hear anything.

Diane: You’d think he’d be ready for this after thirteen years.

Patti : My sister could have married a lawyer.

The kiss, twenty-five years ago.

Diane, did you know that Otis wrote this song in 1967 while living on a houseboat in Sausalito? Do you suppose he and Sweet William were friends?

Those babies are tucked up under the roof of the garage and it’s hard to get a good clear shot. Maybe once their heads are poking above the nest. However, while I was on the ladder their parents returned with food, and squawked at me. I was using my 90 mm prime, not my telephoto.

Those babies are tucked up under the roof of the garage and it’s hard to get a good clear shot. Maybe once their heads are poking above the nest. However, while I was on the ladder their parents returned with food, and squawked at me. I was using my 90 mm prime, not my telephoto.

My neighbor down the street cultivates a beautiful flower garden that borders both her driveway and Central St. It’s impossible to drive by without stopping to take pictures, and yesterday’s overcast skies and recent rain made her orange poppies pop. Near those poppies is a purple flower that up close looks like a Hubble photo of the universe.

From Mary Oliver’s Poppies:

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.