August 2009
3 posts
“Para cadáveres no estoy en casa”
Morning Poem by Mary Oliver
Every morning the world Every morning the world is created. Under the orange
sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches —- and the ponds appear like black cloth on which are painted islands
of summer lilies. If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination...