I Wish I Could Write Like This
LIFE STORY When I lived under the black oaks I felt I was made of leaves. When I lived by the Little Sister Pond, I dreamed I was the feather of the blue heron left on the shore; I was the pond lily, my root delicate as an artery, my face like a star, my happiness brimming. Later I was the footsteps that follow the sea. I knew the tides, I knew the ingredients of the wrack. I knew the eider, the red-throated loon with his uplifted beak and his smart eye. I felt I was the tip of the wave, the pearl of water on the eider’s glossy back. No, there’s no escaping, nor would I want to escape this outgo, this foot-loosening, this solution to gravity and a single shape. Now I am here, later I will be there. I will be that small cloud, staring down at the water, the one that stalls, that lifts its white legs, that looks like a lamb. Mary Oliver -2012