Tuesday, July 15, 2008

black oaks.


not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary, or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance &comfort.
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays carp &whistle all day in the branches, without the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I`m pale with longing for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen &you can`t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage of their shoulders, &their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don`t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

&to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don`t want to sell my life for money, I don`t even want to come in out of the rain."



d.l.s. said...


This is very sad. If I didn't know you, I'd be concerned.

c.melissa said...

Oh, Ms. Oliver. You slay us.