Trying not to cry. It is taking some effort. But I know that this is one of those times when I simply must not.  There is work to be done and I am able, I am well. One bamboo plant is growing right outside my window, with me doing very little to help it.

There is work to be done and there is comfort in that. Thank god for poetry. Thank god for poetry. Thank god for poetry.

Hope and Love
Jane Hirshfield

All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.

I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way,
or if he listened for
some missing one–
not knowing even
that was what he did–
in the blowing
sounds in the dark.
I know that
hope is the hardest
love we carry.

He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

 

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