What is the same is different

A Hand by Ashley Infante A heart is not four chambers and a pulse. Nor is it blood and veins, not a muscle or the bump bump you hear, not arteries, star of the body, meander of pathways. A heart is not the thick wall of feelings with infinite dramas, nor what it has felt, not on the muscle itself, not on the ecstatic being. Nor is the heart its meadows of holding, of shaping— not sponge of life, not silk's smoothness, not love. The devil's black heart does not allow man to love. What empties itself falls into the place that is open. A heart opened holds only a single, transparent question. Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, falls, flows. Original Poem: A Hand by Jane Hirshfield A hand is not four fingers and a thumb. Nor is it palm and knuckles, not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow, not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins. A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines with their infinite dramas, nor what it has written, not on the page, not on the ecstatic body. Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping— not sponge of rising yeast-bread, not rotor pin's smoothness, not ink. The maple's green hands do not cup the proliferant rain. What empties itself falls into the place that is open. A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question. Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs. See this post in context