Undertow and Dapple

~ after Jane Hirshfield

How the wind flung a heavy branch
       from the tallest pine

across the road; and it pulsed
       like an arm scattering

blessings from out of a pitcher
       of holy water, before landing

six inches from the car. You have
       no power over such things,

though people will talk about luck
       or hit-and-miss; amulets,

protections slipped under pillows
       at night. A stick of incense

burns down to a stub of ash.
       The word for holy in one

language is the same as the word
       for ordinary in another.

The unexceptional, the plain:
       nothing but a faint smudge

on the table even as the ghost
       smell of forests fills the room.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.