I just came across this poem by Jane Hirshfield in a recent issue of The New Yorker.

I love it.

from My Life Was The Size Of My Life:

‘My life was the size of my life.

Its rooms were room-sized,

its soul was the size of my soul…

…Others, I know, had lives larger.

Others, I know, had lives shorter…

…Once, I grew moody and distant.

I told my life I would like some time,

I would like to try seeing others.

In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned…’

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2014/03/10/140310po_poem_hirshfield

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