Love in August

White moths
against the screen
in August darkness.

Some clamor 
in envy.

Some spread large
as two hands
of a thief

who wants to put 
back in your cupboard
the long-taken silver.

The Lighthouse

Its vision sweeps its one path
like an aged monk raking a garden,
his question long ago answered or moved on.
Far off, night-grazing horses,
breath scented with oatgrass and fennel,
step through it, disappear, step through it, disappear.

Red Scarf

The red scarf
still hangs over the chairback.
In its folds, like a perfume
that cannot be quite remembered,
inconceivable before

~Jane Hirshfield

De Capo

Take the used-up heart like a pebble
and throw it far out.

Soon there is nothing left.
Soon the last ripple exhausts itself
in the weeds.

Returning home, slice carrots, onions, celery.
Glaze them in oil before adding
the lentils, water, and herbs.

Then the roasted chestnuts, a little pepper, the salt.
Finish with goat cheese and parsley. Eat.
You may do this, I tell you, it is permitted.
Begin again the story of your life.

~Jane Hirshfield

Not Even Moving One Step

The rain falling too lightly to shape
an audible house, an audible tree,
blind, soaking, the old horse waits in his pasture.
He knows the field for exactly what it is:
his limitless mare, his beloved.
Even the mallards sleep in her red body maned
in thistles, hooved in the new green shallows of spring.

Slow rain streams from fetlocks, hips, the lowered head,
while she stands in the place beside him that no one sees.

The muzzles almost touch.
How silently the heart pivots on its hinge.

~Jane Hirshfield.
This poem is like a piece of the finest black velvet. So soft, you can hardly feel it. I found it unbelievably touching.