Hass speaks so plainly of love,
of love.

It is, of course, the gift of experience,
the language of time, and age. Wisdom,
we might call such a thing, were it not fragile
(fugacious?),
unpredictable.

He has a knack for shifting so easily
from lyrical exposition -
the perception of nature, its plangent limns,
its subtle and hidden graces -
to very frank, spare discussions of love and loss.

Everything is in plain view, and
there’s so much at work beneath things,
hidden.

I am still writing about life,
not writing from life.
Ah, that is the difference.