Tenderness does not choose its own uses.
It goes out to everything equally,
circling rabbit and hawk.
Look: in the iron bucket,
a single nail, a single ruby—
all the heavens and hells.
They rattle in the heart and make one sound.
Another poem to anchor my minimalist phase. I’m always fascinated by the less is more power that poetry can possess. Hirshfield, as a writer, never gets in the way of the poem. That’s a quality that very few poets possess.