Mary Oliver

Inside
 that mud-hive, that gas-sponge,
  that reeking
   leaf-yard, that rippling

      The sun rises late in this Southern county. And, since the first thing I do when I wake up is go out into the world, I walk here along a dark road. There are many trees. Also, shrubs and vines—sumac, the ivies, honeysuckle.

When death carts me off to the bottomlands, when I begin the long work of rising—

Death, whoever and whatever you are, tallest king of
tall kings, grant me these wishes: unstring my bones;
let me be not one thing but all things, and...

In spring the blue azures bow down
at the edges of shallow puddles
to drink the black rainwater.
Then they rise and float away into the fields.

All night
 I float
   in the shallow ponds
    while the moon wanders

burning,
 bone white,
   among the milky stems.