Joy Harjo

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer

We turned into the drive,
and gravel flew up from the tires
like sparks from a fire. So much
to be done--the unpacking, the mail
and papers...the grass needed mowing.…
We climbed stiffly out of the car.
The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled.

And then we noticed the pear tree.
The limbs so heavy with fruit
they nearly touched the ground.
We went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass;
and we each took a pear,
and ate, and were grateful.

***********************************
Who

These lines are written
by an animal, an angel,
a stranger sitting in my chair;
by someone who already knows
how to live without trouble
among books, and pots and pans…

Who is it who asks me to find
language for the sound
a sheep’s hoof makes when it strikes
a stone? And who speaks
the words which are my food?

Jane Kenyon

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