“Burlap Sack,” Jane Hirshfield

A person is full of sorrow the way a burlap sack is full of stonework sand.
We say, “Hand me the sack,”
but we get the weight.
Heavier if it got left out in the rain.
To think that the sand or stones is the self is an error.
To think that grief is the self is an error.
Self carries the grief as a facsimile carries the side bags,
being careful between the trees to leave extra room.
The self is not the load of ropes and nails and axes.
The self is not the miner nor builder nor diver.
What would it be to take the bride
and leave behind the heavy dowry?
To let the thin-eared mule browse the tall grasses,
it’s long ears waggling like the tails of two happy dogs?