Another Summer Begins
Summer begins again.
How many do I still have?
Not a worthy question,
I imagine.
Hope is one thing,
gratitude another
and sufficient
unto itself.
The white blossoms of the shad
have opened
because it is their time
to open,
the mockingbird
is raving
in the thornbush.
How did it come to be
that I am no longer young
and the world
that keeps time
in its own way
has just been born?
I don't have the answers
and anyway I have become suspicious
of such questions,
and as for hope,
that tender advisement,
even that
I'm going to leave behind.
I'm just going to put on
my jacket, my boots,
I'm just going to go out
to sleep
all this night
in some unnamed, flowered corner
of the pasture.
Mary Oliver
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