Pyracantha And Plum
by Jane Hirshfield
Last autumn’s chastened berries still on one tree,
spring blossoms tender, hopeful, on another.
The view from this window
much as it was ten years ago, fifteen.
Yet it seems this morning
a self-portrait both clearer and darker,
as if while I slept some Rembrandt or Breughel
had walked through the garden, looking hard.
You can find this poem in After.
