Day after quiet day passes.
I speak to no one besides the dog.
To her,
I murmur much I would not otherwise say.
We make plans
then break them on a moment's whim.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvf6oE21jUdXynei5UpZByXHYjQg5CP3WikmznFXR9nEorPCg8VYTncE9nnSl_YrI9zmvQfoCouJuwFc-H5kQHtTaj3tnvdrzxn1GM7AVc_4apo3nsEQVKcx00UqCWShfJZWuLNd6udQ/s1600/images.jpg)
though sometimes bringing
to my attention a small blue ball.
Passing the fig tree
I see it is
suddenly huge with green fruit,
which may ripen or not.
Near the gate,
I stop to watch
the sugar ants climb the top bar
and cross at the latch,
as they have now in summer for years.
In this way I study my life.
It is,
I think today,
like a dusty glass vase.
A little water,
a few flowers would be good,
I think;
but do nothing. Love is far away.
Incomprehensible sunlight falls on my hand.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8g4Ru-fyhf3iEPoIVm5THN3ClLIE3KqZsNRZbZCwgoh6_Mbq6XpcYkxXku3PeFCCh16ttZ54AkF_x5DQvANnbP6kAbBgYb9540yOPs7mNrWE4-5ztZMcvJnsN8-dLwWQILZPJFMpDIO0/s200/2006-04JaneHirshfield.jpg)
Art credit: "The Blue Ball," photograph by Andrew Kearton, taken June 19, 2013 (originally color).
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