Copyright Barry Troutman
I imagine myself in time looking back on myself--
Jane Hirshfield
This pen in hand, this self-moving pen on this day of bright sun after bright moon--
what would I give her, this self, in a year or a decade, if there were something I could give?
Besides desire. Besides platitudes aimed at quieting her frantic life.
I would give her the truth: she is who she is, no different, no reason to be different.
Pen in her hand, in love with words: their sounds, the way they can pin a moment so she can see it. The way they stop her mid-sentence, mid-thought, with the exquisiteness of noticing.
Photo by Barry Troutman
Jane Hirshfield
This pen in hand, this self-moving pen on this day of bright sun after bright moon--
what would I give her, this self, in a year or a decade, if there were something I could give?
Besides desire. Besides platitudes aimed at quieting her frantic life.
I would give her the truth: she is who she is, no different, no reason to be different.
Pen in her hand, in love with words: their sounds, the way they can pin a moment so she can see it. The way they stop her mid-sentence, mid-thought, with the exquisiteness of noticing.
Photo by Barry Troutman
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