Sunday, November 3, 2019

Song of Autumn by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall

don'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 don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come--six, a dozen--to sleep
inside their bodies? And don'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.


Barbara Rogers said...

well, spam happens!
Lovely of my favorite authors. Thanks for the thoughtful pause.

NCmountainwoman said...

That has always been one of my favorites. Thanks for choosing it.

jennyfreckles said...

Lovely - words and photos.