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16 January 2016


Isn’t it plain that the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they want
about spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors to my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning so far I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky – as though
all night they have thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.
Mary Oliver

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