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Coppery light hesitates 
again in the small-leaved

Japanese plum. Summer 
and sunset, the peace 
of the writing desk

and the habitual peace 
of writing, these things 
form an order I only

belong to in the idleness 
of attention. Last light 
rims the blue mountain

and I almost glimpse 
what I was born to,
not so much in the sunlight

or the plum tree 
as in the pulse
that forms these lines.

© Robert Hass