A Morning Poem in These titles mean nothing.

We aren’t much for gifts at Christmas. We tend to look for excuses not to give them and are grateful when we do not receive them.

But…

Last night soon after my younger son and his family arrived my son handed me a stack of New Yorker magazines. They had subscribed a while back, a special offer no doubt, and they had saved them for me.

This morning I opened the second one, the September 5 issue, and on page 63 I found a poem by Jane Hirshfield.

Things Seem Strong

Things seem strong,
Houses, trees, trucks - a chair even.
A table.

You don’t expect one to break.
No, it takes a hammer to break one,
a war, a saw, an earthquake.

Troy after Troy after Troy seemed strong
to those living around and in them.
Nine Troys were strong,
each trembling under the other.

When the ground floods
and the fire ants leave their strong city,
they link legs and form a raft, and float, and live,
and begin again elsewhere.

Strong, your life’s wish
to continue linking arms with life’s eye blink, life’s tear well,
life’s hammering of copper sheets and planing of Port Orford cedar,
life’s joke of the knock-knock.

Knock, knock. Who’s there?
I am.
I am who?

That first and last question.

Who once dressed in footed pajamas,
Who once was smothered in kisses.
Who seemed so strong
I could not imagine your mouth would ever come to stop asking.

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It’s Christmas and according to my calendar the first day of Chanukah. Words from languages with different alphabets translate differently. If I were to type the name of the Jewish holiday of light I would start it with an H. Ordinarily when I can’t spell a word I google an attempt at it and google shows me a dictionary entry and both google and I are happy. This time I guess I’ll just trust my calendar to know how to spell it.

This is the week the world pivots on its orbit and starts to lean back toward the sun. Days in the northern hemisphere start to slowly become longer, nights shorter. All religions, all traditions, have holidays this time of year. Jesus was born, the oil did not burn out, the sun comes back. Miracles, for those who wish to believe. The truth whether we chose to subscribe or not. Like the New Yorker. Even if we do not subscribe, maybe someone will bring their used copies. A storehouse of truth and beauty.

Thank you life.

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Last updated December 25, 2016