blossom

by mary oliver
from new and selected poems

in april
     the ponds
          open
               like black blossoms,
the moon
     swims in every one;
          there's fire
               everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
     their satisfaction. what
          we know: that time
               chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
     is a state of paralysis. what
          we long for: joy
               before death, nights
in the swale -- everything else
     can wait but not
          this thrust
               from the root
of the body. what
     we know: we are more
          than blood -- we are more
               than our hunger and yet
we belong
     to the moon and when the ponds
          open, when the burning
               begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
     of hurrying down
          into the black petals,
               into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered,
into the body of another.