1. "To live in this world

    you must be able
    to do three things:
    to love what is mortal;
    to hold it

    against your bones knowing
    your own life depends on it;
    and, when the time comes to let it go,
    to let it go."
    — Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods” (via proustitute)
     

  2. sharingpoetry:

    Mary Oliver, “October”

    1

    There’s this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
    A longing wells up in its throat
    like a blossom
    as it breathes slowly.

    What does the world
    mean to you if you can’t trust it
    to go on shining when you’re

    not there? and there’s
    a tree, long-fallen; once
    the bees flew to it, like a procession
    of messengers, and filled it
    with honey.

    2

    I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
    green pine tree:

    little dazzler
    little song,
    little mouthful.

    3

    The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
    grunts into view. There is no measure
    for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes—
    there is no telling
    the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
    and yawns.
    Near the fallen tree
    something—a leaf snapped loose
    from the branch and fluttering down—tries to pull me
    into its trap of attention.

    4

    It pulls me
    into its trap of attention.

    And when I turn again, the bear is gone.

    5

    Look, hasn’t my body already felt
    like the body of a flower?

    6

    Look, I want to love this world
    as thought it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
    to be alive
    and know it.

    7

    Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not
    the flowers, not the blackberries
    brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink
    from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees;
    I won’t whisper my own name.

    One morning
    the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
    and didn’t see me—and I thought:

    so this is the world.
    I’m not in it.
    It is beautiful.

    (via rabbit-light)

    (Source: proustitute)

    (via yama-bato)