I don’t know why I’ve been spending my evenings inside — habits of the winter I suppose. Much nicer out on the deck. The bees are so loud in the rhododendrons that I keep turning my head to see what is there. A few moments ago, I heard a bear off in the woods, in earshot for just a few moments. The paths always grow too crowded for the bears, and they crunch their way noisily through. Why should they tiptoe?
Here’s a poem by Mary Oliver, I just ordered a collection of hers, New and Selected Poems, Volume Two
Wild Geese
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.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Here’s another flickr pic, well worth looking at, but, alas, by a spoilsport who’d rather not crown a blog post with their picture!View On Black.
