“Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.”
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings
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4 comments:
Ah, Mary Oliver, my first American poet that I read.
She observes, retells, and celebrates nature's secrets. She is correct; too much overload would exhaust anyone. That is why I find the birds wise. They give us just enough for the morning, then give us unrest by night, as we listen, dream and wonder, "What are the voices of birds for?"
I have tried to charm the birds out of the trees, but never had any luck. Do you have Mocking Birds where you live?
Oh dat liedje ...... tweet,tweettweet, tweettweet
Good morning zuster, sista, soeur, hermana! Thank you so much for coming to visit my poem. XOXOXOXOXOX
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