like black blossoms

Just keeping the blossom-theme  going for one final day ...

... thus; here's a poem, by Mary Oliver, as taken from within the pictured 1992 (Volume One) Selection:


Blossom

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.

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Mary Oliver (1935 - 2019)

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