Monday, February 16, 2009

I keep thinking about that fullness in my chest when the moon comes out and the ice begins to melt:


Isn't it plain the sheets of moss,
except that they have no tongues,
could lecture all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing as
though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now the
crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky - as though

all night they had thought of what they would
like their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

by Mary Oliver

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