In life I’m no longer capable of love,
of that old feeling of being
in love, such a rusty
feeling, rusty,
functionless
toy. In odd
sequential dreams
I can still love.
Love in the old way.
Here is a sweet lozenge.
Here is some broth,
on whose surface
I have floated
edible flowers.
I can feel the old feeling
where I used to feel it,
in my chest.
In the dream I feel it,
but when I wake
the feeling is gone.
There isn’t a word
for the feeling that replaces it.
Not numbness or emptiness.
It is a nameless feeling.
Racy in its own way.
A racy new toy.
Diane Seuss
❤️
I Speak with Gravity
To your left, the word gravid:
the weight of new life.
To your right, the word grave:
place for putting a body
once it’s become only weight.
Between them:
existence,
ambush of amazement,
you.
I pause. I look out my window.
The big-leafed maple
today looks back undecided.
Some leaves wither brown, some keep green.
For a tree, gravity is simple.
A branch growing upward is neither
hope nor resistance.
A branch growing downward is not surrender.
One shape just becomes another.
To find light, if it must, the whole trunk will twist.
A tree doesn’t grieve that gravity
will soon enough sweep it all in.
Before into after, existence’s only offer.
And yet, about time, gravity, you are silent.
With your one, unchanging thought, what could you say?
A musical note never changing goes unheard.
My friend who is dying, still in you. I, still in you.
Two leaves almost weightless
Jane Hirshfield
