Red Onion, Cherries, Boiling Potatoes, Milk by Jane Hirshfield

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Red Onion, Cherries, Boiling Potatoes, Milk-
by Jane Hirshfield
Here is a soul, accepting nothing.
Obstinate as a small child
refusing tapioca, peaches, toast.
The cheeks are streaked, but dry.
The mouth is firmly closed in both directions.
Ask, if you like,
if it is merely sulking, or holding out for better.
The soup grows cold in the question.
The ice cream pools in its dish.
Not this, is all it knows. Not this.
As certain cut flowers refuse to drink in the vase.
And the heart, from its great distance, watches, helpless.
(photograph Rose Cook)

To Hear the Falling World by Jane Hirshfield

Only if I move my arm a certain way,
it comes back.
Or the way the light bends in the trees
this time of year,
so a scrap of sorrow, like a bird, lights on the heart.
I carry this in my body, seed
in an unswept corner, husk-encowled and seeming safe.
But they guard me, these small pains,
from growing sure
of myself and perhaps forgetting.