Now I see it-- <br />it nudges with its bulldog head <br />the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble; <br />and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal <br /> <br />who is leading her soft children <br />from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps <br />close to the edge <br />and they follow closely, the good children-- <br /> <br />the tender children, <br />the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet <br />into the darkness. <br />And now will come--I can count on it--the murky splash, <br /> <br />the certain victory <br />of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic <br />circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks <br />flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart <br /> <br />will be most mournful <br />on their account. But, listen, <br />what's important? <br />Nothing's important <br /> <br />except that the great and cruel mystery of the world, <br />of which this is a part, <br />not to be denied. Once, <br />I happened to see, on a city street, in summer, <br /> <br />a dusty, fouled turtle plodded along-- <br />a snapper-- <br />broken out I suppose from some backyard cage-- <br />and I knew what I had to do-- <br /> <br />I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it-- <br />I put it, like a small mountain range, <br />into a knapsack, and I took it out <br />of the city, and I let it <br /> <br />down into the dark pond, into <br />the cool water, <br />and the light of the lilies, <br />to live.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/turtle/
