I saw this poem mentioned a couple weeks ago in my social media scrolling–I think on Instagram?–and looked it up, since I Jane Hirshfield is a favorite. It’s a little bleak but “even in this bad year, the apples grow.”


Bad Year
by Jane Hirshfield

Even in this bad year,
the apples grow heavy and round.
Three friends and I trade stories:
biopsy, miscarriage, solitude,
a parent’s unraveling body or mind.
What is reliable? What do you hold?
I demand of the future, later.
The future – whose discretion is perfect –
says nothing, but rolls another
apple loose from its grip.
A hopeful yellow jacket comes to hunt
the crack, the point of easy entry.