A Thousand Mornings

by Mary Oliver

A condition I can’t really call being alive.

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

They were awfully little, those bees, and maybe frightened, yet unstoppably they flew on, somewhere, to live their life.

It’s impossible not to remember wild and want it back.

If you like a prettiness, don’t come here. Look at pictures instead, or wait for the daffodils.

How perfect to be aboard a ship with maybe a hundred years still in my pocket. But it’s late, for all of us, and in truth the only ship there is is the ship we are all on burning the world as we go.

For he was made small but brave of heart.