Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not the flowers, not the blackberries brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees; I won’t whisper my own name. One morning the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident, and didn’t see me—and I thought: so this is the world. I’m not in it. It is beautiful.
“ You don’t want to hear the story of my life, and anyway I don’t want to tell it, I want to listen to the enormous waterfalls of the sun. And anyway it’s the same old story— a few people just trying, one way or another, to survive. Mostly, I want to be kind. —MARY OLIVER, NEW AND SELECTED POEMS.
seafoam* posted a quote
January 24, 2019 8:59pm UTC
If there is life after the earth-life, will you come with me? Even then? Since we’re bound to be something, why not t o g e t h e r. — Mary Oliver | New and Selected Poems: Volume Two
seafoam* posted a quote
November 29, 2017 4:54pm UTC
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves
Mostly, I want to be kind. And nobody, of course, is kind, or mean, for a simple reason. And nobody gets out of it, having to swim through the fires to stay in this world.