It was spring <br />and finally I heard him <br />among the first leaves - <br />then I saw him clutching the limb <br />in an island of shade <br />with his red-brown feathers <br />all trim and neat for the new year. <br />First, I stood still <br />and thought of nothing. <br />Then I began to listen. <br />Then I was filled with gladness - <br />and that's when it happened, <br />when I seemed to float, <br />to be, myself, a wing or a tree - <br />and I began to understand <br />what the bird was saying, <br />and the sands in the glass <br />stopped <br />for a pure white moment <br />while gravity sprinkled upward <br />like rain, rising, <br />and in fact <br />it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing - <br />it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed <br />not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers, <br />and also the trees around them, <br />as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds <br />in the perfectly blue sky - all, all of them <br />were singing. <br />And, of course, yes, so it seemed, <br />so was I. <br />Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last <br />for more than a few moments. <br />It's one of those magical places wise people <br />like to talk about. <br />One of the things they say about it, that is true, <br />is that, once you've been there, <br />you're there forever. <br />Listen, everyone has a chance. <br />Is it spring, is it morning? <br />Are there trees near you, <br />and does your own soul need comforting? <br />Quick, then - open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song <br />may already be drifting away.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/such-singing-in-the-wild-branches/
