Poem

Blossom by Mary Oliver

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.