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Montag, 16. April 2012

Blossom

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.

(Mary Oliver)