13 Jan
Posted in: Poems
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But Not the Mountain

Today feels like a day for a Jane Hirshfield poem:


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. 

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