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