Naomi Shihab Nye

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What is Given, What is Not Given

“Not sadness, which is always there…”
              Philip Lopate

To market, you hens with stunned faces,
crate of papaya, peanuts and corn.
Cart wheels fit ruts in the road.
I stand back, a shadow.
Men who know each other are saying Good Day.
All my life I wanted to find the simplest
cleanest way of doing anything.
Something to plant in the heart—
a belief, a grove of trees.
Lost in the city of blue doors,
cloud cap on the mountain,
why should anyone nod?
Inside each memory shadows are the shrine.

On Chiapa de Corzo women line up for tortillas,
their faces soft with peace.
Maybe we read each other wrong.
Time which never fits the face I give it,
which always seems too short or too long,
how do I become your servant now?
My basket is small, it fits one finger.
After the market, mounds of withered leaves.

When will legs equal the streets
strung out before them?
Each year I listen harder
to hear it, corners whispering
Don’t worry, you will grow.