by Mary Oliver

Page 4

Always, but certainly in April, one spring poem is appropriate. This is called "Blossom."

In April
  the ponds
      like black blossoms,
the moon
  swims in every one;
    there's fire
      everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
  their satisfaction. What
    we know: that time
      chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
  is a state of paralysis. What
    we long for: joy
      before death, nights
in the swale-everything else
  can wait but not
    this thrust
      from the root
of the body. What
  we know: we are more
    than blood-we are more
      than our hunger and yet
we belong
  to the moon and when the ponds
    open, when the burning
      begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
  of hurrying down
    into the black petals,
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered,
into the body of another.
into the body of another.

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