by Jane Hirshfield

    The dog， dead for years， keeps coming back in the dream.

    We look at each other there with the old joy.

    It was always her gift to bring me into the present—

    Which sleeps， changes， awakens， dresses， leaves.

    Happiness and unhappiness

    differ as a bucket hammered from gold differs from one of pressed tin，

    this painting proposes.

    Each carries the same water， it says.