Evening Star
by Mary Oliver
(section 9)
I went down all alone, to the black pond.
Slow summer day.
No one around.
Not even a bird singing, not a wind awake, nothing.
Yet nothing could ever convince me
that I was alone.
If God exists he isn't just butter and good luck --
he isn't just the summer day the red rose,
he's the snake he's the mouse,
he's the hole in the ground,
for which thoroughness, if anything, I would adore him,
if I could adore him.
Adore him.
No comments:
Post a Comment