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