not all who wander are lost

not all who wander are lost

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Black Oaks by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound, though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another--whjy don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,
I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

"Get going...but, I don't want to sell my life for money."

Amen, amen, amen.

This is a new one for me or a read with fresh eyes and some resonance in the gut.

You and Leo are an inspiration in that way.

Check out Ruthie Foster singing "Woke Up This Morning" on YouTube. It's a good one.

Love you, Em