Thursday, June 23, 2016

last days

by mary oliver

things are
     changing; things are starting to
          spin, snap, fly off into
               the blue sleeve of the long
                    afternoon. oh and ooh
come whistling out of the perished mouth
     of the grass, as things
turn soft, boil back
     into substance and hue. as everything,
          forgetting its own enchantment, whispers:
                i too love oblivion why not it is full
                      of second chances. now,
hiss the bright curls of the leaves. now!
     booms the muscle of the wind.

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