A Thousand Mornings

by Mary Oliver

I know I can walk through the world, along the shore or under the trees, with my mind filled with things of little importance, in full self-attendance. A condition I can’t really call being alive.

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

So why spend so much time trying. You fuss, we live.

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

He wanted a body so he took mine. Some wounds never vanish. Yet little by little I learned to love my life. Though sometimes I had to run hard— especially from melancholy— not to be held back.

Oh the house of denial has thick walls and very small windows

and whoever lives there, little by little, will turn to stone.

I tell you that ant is very alive! Look at how he fusses at being stepped on.

While the man who has only questions, to comfort himself, makes music.