Photo: Eric Montfort // CC BY-ND 2.0
The Destination
by Jane Hirshfield
I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it.
Irremediable rock of refusal, this world thick with bird song,
tender with starfish and apples.
How calming to say, "Turn right at the second corner,"
and be understood,
and see things arrive as they should at their own destination.
Yet we speak in riddles—
"Turn back at the silence." "Pass me the mountain."
To the end we each nod, pretending to understand.
