The quiet openingbetween fence strands
perhaps eighteen inches.
Antlers to hind hooves,
four feet off the ground,
the deer poured through it.
No tuft of the coarse white belly hair left behind.
I don’t know how a stag turns
into a stream, an arc of water.
I have never felt such accurate envy.
Not of the deer—
To be that porous, to have such largeness pass through me.
Jane Hirshfield, The Supple Deer
3 comments:
I can't miss visiting your e-home
even for a day .
I love the pictures , I love the words .
I owe this moment's peace to you ,to
your sensitivity and to your art .
akash
Oh... so beautiful. Poem and picture. thank you.
Beautiful poem and deer. I love the feeling.
Post a Comment