Thursday, February 14, 2008

Thursday Poem - The Supple Deer

The quiet opening
between 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


akash said...

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 .

GreenishLady said...

Oh... so beautiful. Poem and picture. thank you.

Mary Ann said...

Beautiful poem and deer. I love the feeling.