Winter 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 1 Poetry |

Hurry toward Beginning

Is it because the hour is latethe dove sounds new,no longer askinga path to its father's house,no longer begging shoes of its mother? Or is it because I can't tell the roomsfrom the minutes, departurefrom arrival, the host from the guest, the onewaiting, expectant at the window,from the one who, even now, tramples the dew? I can't tell what my father saidabout the sea we crossed togetherfrom the sea itself, or the rose's noonfrom my mother cryingon the stairs, lostbetween a country and a country. Everywhere is home to the rain.The hours themselves, where are they?The fruit of listening, what's that?Are days the offspring of distracted hands?Does waiting that growsout of waiting grow lighter?What does my death weigh?What's earlier, thirst or shade?Is all light late, the echo to some darkand prior bell? Is it because I'm tiredthat I don't know? Or is it because I'm dying?When will I be born? Am I the flower,wide awake inside the falling fruit?Or a man waiting for a woman asle

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One Heart

By Li-Young Lee

Is it because the hour is latethe dove sounds new,no longer askinga path to its father's house,no longer begging shoes of its mother? Or is it because I can't tell […]

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