A Month of Days and Nights
By Jane Hirshfield
Days that could have
been anything,
nights that could have been anything,
turned with the leaves.
Then, someone played
the piano -
halting, unpracticed, and perfect.
I listened to pity
and lowered my head in shame.
Ashamed not at my tears,
or even at what has been wasted,
but to have been dry-eyed so long.
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