Apropos of my last post, in which I outed myself as an old person, this is a poem I copied out from Mary Oliver's book Swan. I copied out it for the woman I see in the mirror, who may or may not be the woman you see when you look this way.
What can I say that I have not said before?
So I'll say it again.
The leaf has a song in it.
Stone is the face of patience.
Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
and you are somewhere it it
and it will never end until all ends.
Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
were a child
is singing still.
I am of years lived, so far, seventy-four,
and the leaf is singing still.
No comments:
Post a Comment