The Door
A note waterfalls
steadily
through us,
just below hearing.
Or this early light
streaming through dusty glass:
what enters, enters like that,
unstoppable gift.
And yet there is also
the other,
the breath-space held between any call
and its answer
--
In the
querying
first scuff of footstep,
the wood owls' repeating,
the
two-counting heart:
A little
sabbath,
minnow whose brightness silvers past time.
The rest-note,
unwritten,
hinged between worlds,
that precedes change and allows
it.
~ Jane Hirshfield
~