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