Dreams
All night
the dark buds of dreams
open
richly.
In the center
of every petal
is a letter,
and you imagine
if you could only remember
and string them all together
they would spell the answer.
It is a long night,
and not an easy one-
you have so many branches,
and there are diversions-
birds that come and go,
the black fox that lies down
to sleep beneath you,
the moon staring
with her bone-white eye.
Finally you have spent
all the energy you can
and you drag from the ground
the muddy skirt of your roots
and leap awake
with two or three syllables
like water in your mouth
and a sense
of loss- a memory
not yet a word,
certainly not yet the answer-
only how it feels
when deep in the tree
all the locks click open
and the fire surges through the wood,
and the blossoms blossom.
Mary Oliver
from "Dream Work"
1 comment:
I adore Mary Oliver. Her poems are accessible, while having this stark, wild beauty that is able to reach such deep levels of emotion. They always linger on in my head for days after reading one, like this one here. It's so great that you celebrate such an elegant writer. Thank you for sharing.
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