What is so utterly invisible <br />as tomorrow? <br />Not love, <br />not the wind, <br /> <br />not the inside of a stone. <br />Not anything. <br />And yet, how often I'm fooled-- <br />I'm wading along <br /> <br />in the sunlight-- <br />and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining <br />days ahead-- <br />I can see the light spilling <br /> <br />like a shower of meteors <br />into next week's trees, <br />and I plan to be there soon-- <br />and, so far, I am <br /> <br />just that lucky, <br />my legs splashing <br />over the edge of darkness, <br />my heart on fire. <br /> <br />I don't know where <br />such certainty comes from-- <br />the brave flesh <br />or the theater of the mind-- <br /> <br />but if I had to guess <br />I would say that only <br />what the soul is supposed to be <br />could send us forth <br /> <br />with such cheer <br />as even the leaf must wear <br />as it unfurls <br />its fragrant body, and shines <br /> <br />against the hard possibility of stoppage-- <br />which, day after day, <br />before such brisk, corpuscular belief, <br />shudders, and gives way.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/walking-to-oak-head-pond-and-thinking-of-the-pon/
