February 29th

Some poetry for today by Jane Hirshfield

An extra day—   Like the painting’s fifth cow, who looks out directly, straight toward you, from inside her black and white spots.   An extra day— Accidental, surely: the made calendar stumbling over the real as a drunk trips over a threshold too low to see.   An extra day—   With a second cup of black coffee. A friendly but businesslike phone call. A mailed-back package. Some extra work, but not too much— just one day’s worth, exactly.   An extra day—   Not unlike the space between a door and its frame when one room is lit and another is not, and one changes into the other as a woman exchanges a scarf.   An extra day—   Extraordinarily like any other. And still there is some generosity to it, like a letter re-readable after its writer has died.