One Sand Grain Among The Others in Winter Wind
I wake with my hand held over the place of grief in my body.
“Depend on nothing,” the voice advises, but even that is useless.
My ears are useless, my familiar and intimate tongue.
My protecting hand is useless, that wants to hold the single leaf to the tree
and say, Not this one, this one will be saved.
~After: Jane Hirshfield Poems~
that’s so utterly beautiful. And pertinant fr me today. Thank you, dear one.
you are welcome sweet one, I’m glad you like it…obviously I did too
i remember the 1st time i read this, just gut wrenching… it just brings that feeling up in and of itself… may b a gal thing….hmmm xoam