Each morning waking amidst the not-ever-before, dressing inside the not-ever-again. Under sunlight or cloud, brushing the hair. Not yet arrived at the end-crimped finish, drinking coffee and buttering toast. Permitted to slip into coat, into shoes, I go out, I count myself part, carrying only a weightless shadow, whose each corner joins and departs from the shadows of others. Mortal, alive among others equally fragile. And with luck— for days even, sometimes— this luxury, this extra gift: able to even forget it.
Poetry by Jane Hirshfield, “Each Morning Calls Us to Praise This World That Is Fleeting,” from The Asking