Sunday, August 18, 2013

1136. Poetry: Mary Oliver's August

By Mary Oliver, American Primitive, 1983


When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body 

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is 
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves, there is
this happy tongue.

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