Metempsychosis
Some stories last many
centuries,
others only a moment.
All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass,
grow distant and more beautiful with salt.
others only a moment.
All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass,
grow distant and more beautiful with salt.
Yet even today, to look at a
tree
and ask the story Who are you? is to be transformed.
and ask the story Who are you? is to be transformed.
There is a stage in us where
each being, each thing, is a mirror.
Then the bees of self pour
from the hive-door,
ravenous to enter the sweetness of flowering nettles and thistle.
ravenous to enter the sweetness of flowering nettles and thistle.
Next comes the ringing a
stone or violin or empty bucket
gives off—
the immeasurable’s continuous singing,
before it goes back into story and feeling.
gives off—
the immeasurable’s continuous singing,
before it goes back into story and feeling.
In Borneo, there are palm
trees that walk on their high roots.
Slowly, with effort, they lift one leg then another.
Slowly, with effort, they lift one leg then another.
I would like to join that
stilted transmigration,
to feel my own skin vertical as theirs:
an ant-road, a highway for beetles.
to feel my own skin vertical as theirs:
an ant-road, a highway for beetles.
I would like not minding,
whatever travels my heart.
To follow it all the way into leaf-form, bark-furl, root-touch,
and then keep walking, unimaginably further.
To follow it all the way into leaf-form, bark-furl, root-touch,
and then keep walking, unimaginably further.
~ Jane Hirshfield
~
(Given Sugar, Given
Salt)
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