April Poems 2020 #1: Loss and Leaving

TODAY, ANOTHER UNIVERSE

by Jane Hirshfield

The arborist has determined:
senescence      beetles      canker
quickened by drought
but in any case
not prunable   not treatable   not to be propped.

And so.

The branch from which the sharp-shinned hawks and their mate-cries.

The trunk where the ant.

The red squirrels’ eighty-foot playground.

The bark   cambium   pine-sap   cluster of needles.

The Japanese patterns      the ink-net.

The dapple on certain fish.

Today, for some, a universe will vanish.
First noisily,
then just another silence.

The silence of after, once the theater has emptied.

Of bewilderment after the glacier,
the species, the star.

Something else, in the scale of quickening things,
will replace it,

this hole of light in the light, the puzzled birds swerving around it.

 

 

 

 

This entry was posted in All part of the process, change, Check this out, Loss and Leaving, my museum of inspiration, Other peoples words, philosophy, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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