Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary, <br /> <br />or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance <br />and comfort. <br /> <br />Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays <br />carp and whistle all day in the branches, without <br />the push of the wind. <br /> <br />But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing <br />for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen <br /> <br />and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage <br /> <br />of their shoulders, and their shining green hair. <br /> <br />Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a <br />little sunshine, a little rain. <br /> <br />Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from <br />one boot to another -- why don't you get going? <br /> <br />For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees. <br /> <br />And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists <br />of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, <br /> <br />I don't even want to come in out of the rain.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/black-oaks/
