måndag 29 februari 2016

February 29


February 29

An extra day- 
Like the painting's fifth cow, 
who looks out directly, 
straight toward you, 
from inside her black and white spots. 

An extra day- 

Accidental, surely: 
the made calendar stumbling over the real 
as a drunk trips over a threshold 
too low to see. 

An extra day- 

With a second cup of black coffee. 
A friendly but businesslike phone call. 
A mailed-back package. 
Some extra work, but not too much- 
just one day's worth, exactly. 

An extra day- 

Not unlike the space 
between a door and its frame 
when one room is lit and another is not, 
and one changes into the other 
as a woman exchanges a scarf. 

An extra day- 

Extraordinarily like any other. 
And still 
there is some generosity to it, 
like a letter re-readable after its writer has died. 
                                   Jane Hirshfield 

About this poem 
"Behind this poem, written Feb. 29, 2012, was the death of a friend. I had, months before, brought her the present of a traditional bamboo slat painted reproduction of a famous Chinese painting. She had commented, with her customary inhabitance of all things from the inside, how hard it is to paint a cow so well from the front. Her death was unexpected, and a letter from her I had not wanted to put away was still out on my kitchen table. My year's extra day circled around it." 
-Jane Hirshfield 

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