A Fire Requires Its Own Conflagration
Come, Thief
by Jane Hirshfield
The mandarin silence of windows before their own view,
like guards who nod to every visitor,
“Pass.”
“Come, thief,”
the path to the doorway agrees.
A fire requires its own conflagration.
As birth does. As love does.
Saying to time to the end, “Dear one, enter.”