Evening Poetry, April 18

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.

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