Its cold. Everything aches. I have to sweep the floor, get ready for a visitor, think about whether to deck the halls with bows of holly, do washing AND write a book. Heart and mind feeling sad, but it feels good to feel sad so dont send me those cheer up comments or reiki. I dont want them or it thanks, just to feel sad and move through the day and know that live is good and one precious thing and that I am doing with mine what I want to. So, have this: The Summer Day Mary Oliver Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I dont know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesnt everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? from New and Selected Poems, 1992 Beacon Press, Boston, MA Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver. All rights reserved.
Posted on: Thu, 11 Dec 2014 10:47:06 +0000
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