09/10/2025
Black Oaks
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 Iām pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you canāt 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 ā why donāt you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
And to tell the truth I donāt want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I donāt want to sell my life for money,
I donāt even want to come in out of the rain.
ā Mary Oliver
