Reading Poetry Through the War

War, early mornings, and the poetry of Jane Hirshfield.

A narcissus. This will matter later. Photo by Mohammad Asadi on Unsplash

I blame my mother for it, the morning-routine thing. When I was young, she got up every day before dawn to pray. I was never quite clear on everything she did, but it was elaborate; she said her prayers, she did some devotional reading, she lit candles, one for each person she cared about and “one for my enemies,” she…