All my life, <br />so far, <br />I have loved <br />more than one thing, <br /> <br />including the mossy hooves <br />of dreams, including' <br />the spongy litter <br />under the tall trees. <br /> <br />In spring <br />the moccasin flowers <br />reach for the crackling <br />lick of the sun <br /> <br />and burn down. Sometimes, <br />in the shadows, <br />I see the hazy eyes, <br />the lamb-lips <br /> <br />of oblivion, <br />its deep drowse, <br />and I can imagine a new nothing <br />in the universe, <br /> <br />the matted leaves splitting <br />open, revealing <br />the black planks <br />of the stairs. <br /> <br />But all my life--sofar-- <br />I have loved best <br />how the flowers rise <br />and open, how <br /> <br />the pink lungs of their bodies <br />enter the fore of the world <br />and stand there shining <br />and willing--the one <br /> <br />thing they can do before <br />they shuffle forward <br />into the floor of darkness, they <br />become the trees.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moccasin-flowers/
