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Every
Year |
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the
lilies |
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are
so perfect |
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I
can hardly believe |
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their
lapped light crowding |
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the
black, |
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mid-summer
ponds. |
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Nobody
could count all of them-- |
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the
muskrats swimming |
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among
the pads and the grasses |
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can
reach out |
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their
muscular arms and touch |
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only
so many, they are that |
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rife
and wild. |
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But
what in this world |
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is
perfect? |
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I
bend closer and see |
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how
this one is clearly lopsided-- |
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and
that one wears an orange blight-- |
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and
this one is a glossy cheek |
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half
nibbled away-- |
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and
that one is a slumped purse |
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full
of its own |
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unstoppable
decay. |
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Still,
what I want in my life |
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is
to be willing |
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to
be dazzled-- |
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to
cast aside the weight of facts |
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and
maybe even |
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to
float a little |
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above
this difficult world. |
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I
want to believe I am looking |
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into
the white fire of a great mystery. |
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I
want to believe that the imperfections are nothing-- |
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that
the light is everything--that it is more than the sum |
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of
each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do. |
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Mary
Oliver, The Ponds |
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When
the black snake |
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flashed
onto the morning road, |
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and
the truck could not swerve-- |
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death,
that is how it happens. |
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Now
he lies looped and useless |
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as
an old bicycle tire. |
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I
stop the car |
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and
carry him into the bushes. |
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He
is as cool and gleaming |
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as
a braided whip, he is as beautiful and quiet |
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as
a dead brother. |
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I
leave him under the leaves |
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and
drive on, thinking |
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about
death:
its suddenness, |
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its
terrible weight, |
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its
certain coming. Yet under |
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reason
burns a brighter fire, which the bones |
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have
always preferred. |
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It
is the story of endless good fortune. |
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It
says to oblivion: not me! |
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It
is the light at the center of every cell. |
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It
is what sent the snake coiling and flowing forward |
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happlily
all spring through the green leaves before |
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he
came to the road. |
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Mary
Oliver, The Black Snake |
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