Longing To Be On Its Way
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In the deep fall
donâ€™t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And donâ€™t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come â€” six, a dozen â€” to sleep
inside their bodies? And donâ€™t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
~ Mary Oliver
Deborah Downes, thank you for the spotlight, photo of the week, and member of the week nominations. You do flatter me, dear one.
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