But Not the Mountain
Today feels like a day for a Jane Hirshfield poem:
Vilnius
For a long time
I keep the guidebooks out on the table.
In the morning, drinking coffee, I see the spires:
St. Petersburg, Vilnius, Vienna.
Choices pondered but not finally taken.
Behind them–sometimes behind thick fog–the mountain.
If you lived higher up on the mountain,
I find myself thinking, what you would see is
more of everything else, but not the mountain.