Sunday, December 19, 2010

If the rise of the Fish



.
.
If for a moment
the leaves fell upward,
if it seemed a small flock
of brown-orange birds
circled over the trees,
if they circled then scattered each in 
its own direction for the lost seed
they had spotted in tall, gold-checkered grass.
If the bloom of flies on the window
in morning sun, if their singing insistence
on grief and desire.  If the fish.
If the rise of the fish.
If the blue morning held in the glass of the window,
if my fingers, my palms.  If my thighs.
If your hands, if my thighs.
If the seeds, among all the lost gold of the grass.
If your hands on my thighs, if your tongue.
If the leaves. If the singing fell upward.  If grief.
For a moment if singing and grief.
If the blue of the body fell upward, out of our hands.
If the morning held it like leaves.
.
~ Jane Hirshfield
from The Lives of the Heart
.

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