THE CONVERSATION
A woman moves close:
there is something she wants to say.
The current takes you one direction, her another.
All night you are aware of her presence,
a few sparse-leaved trees.
On the river, a wooden boat putters.
On its deck, a spider washes its face.
Years from now, the boat will reach a port by the sea,
an the generations of spider descendants upon it
will look out, from their nearsighted, eightfold eyes,
at something unanswered.
A woman moves close:
there is something she wants to say.
The current takes you one direction, her another.
All night you are aware of her presence,
aware of the conversation that did not happen.
Inside it are mountains, birds, a wide river,a few sparse-leaved trees.
On the river, a wooden boat putters.
On its deck, a spider washes its face.
Years from now, the boat will reach a port by the sea,
an the generations of spider descendants upon it
will look out, from their nearsighted, eightfold eyes,
at something unanswered.
-Jane Hirshfield
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