a poem by Jane Hirshfield
10 25 molecules
are enough
to call wood thrush or apple.
A hummingbird, fewer.
A wristwatch: 10 24.
An alphabet’s molecules,
tasting of honey, iron, and salt,
cannot be counted—
as some strings, untouched,
sound when a near one is speaking.
So it was when love slipped inside us.
It looked out face to face in every direction.
Then it was inside the tree, the rock, the cloud.