Not Yet.
Morning of buttered toast;
of coffee, sweetened, with milk.
Out of the window,
snow-spruces step from their cobwebs.
Flurry of chickadees, feeding then gone.
A single cardinal stipples an empty branch –
one maple leaf lifted back.
I turn my blessings like photographs into the light;
over my shoulder the god of Not-Yet looks on:
Not-yet-dead, not-yet-lost, not-yet-taken.
Not-yet-shattered, not-yet-sectioned,
not-yet-strewn.
Ample litany, sparing nothing I hate or love,
not-yet-silenced, not-yet-fractured, not-yet-
Not-yet-not.
I move my ear a little closer to that humming figure,
I ask him only to stay.
Jane Hirshfield.
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I so relate to those words,Lovely, thank you for this Alison.
This is a wonderful poem. Any chance I can post in on my blog? Please send me an e-mail if so.
I really love what you've done with this blog, it's very interesting and creative.