by Jane Hirshfield
I was walking again
in the woods,
a yellow light
was sifting all I saw.
Willfully,
with a cold heart,
I took a stick,
lifted it to the opposite side
of the path.
There, I said to myself,
that's done now.
Brushing one hand against the other,
to clean them
of the tiny fragments of bark.
from The Lives of the Heart
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