Jane Hirshfield – Ⅲ

Sometimes the Heart Is a Shallow Autumn River 

 

 

 

 

 

Is rock and shadow, bird.

Is fry, as the smallest fish are called,

darting in the pan of nearness.

 

The frog’s flawless interpretation of the music “Leaf”

is a floating black-eyed emerald

slipped between the water and its reflections.

 

And joy, and grief, and sorrow?

As umbrellas are, to a mountain or field of grass.