Thursday, August 14, 2008

by Mary Oliver

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.


  1. Mary Oliver's poetry is simply wonderful.

  2. I completely agree with you, Maggie.


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