Can You Imagine?
For example, what the trees do
not only in lightning storms
or the watery dark of a summer’s night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now—whenever
we’re not looking. Surely you can’t imagine
they don’t dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade—surely you can’t imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can’t imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.
— Mary Oliver
2 comments:
To spend this winter day, as I did
moving dead wood from the woods to my woodshed,
to listen as I did to the gentle infinite wind wind
down from the treetops to my lowly stoop on the world and
not be blown away with natural prescience and personhood beyond
my wildest dreams is to be worthless in the eyes of the trees who know me
and my worst instincts. No, I'll be back for no other reason than
to prove my worth, my worldly worth to those above and below
and to burn somebody's wood as if it were mine
to warm my home and heart and soul.
Thank you, David.
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