A Thousand Mornings

by Mary Oliver

You fuss over life with your clever words, mulling and chewing on its meaning, while we just live it.

For some things there are no wrong seasons. Which is what I dream of for me.

as though his subject now was his true self, which of course was as dark and secret as anyone else’s, and it was too hard— perhaps you understand— to speak or to sing it to anything or anyone but the sky.

I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It’s impossible not to remember wild and want it back.