Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches? 

by Mary Oliver 

Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives -- 

tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging 

from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like? 

Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you? 

Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides 

with perfect courtesy, to let you in! 

Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass! 

Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart! 

No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint 

that something is missing from your life! 

Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch? 

Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot 

in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself 

continually? 

Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed 

with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone? 

Well, there is time left -- 

fields everywhere invite you into them. 

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away 

from wherever you are, to look for your soul? 

Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk! 

To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is 

the mystery, which is death as well as life, and 

not be afraid! 

To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome 

with amazement! 

To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine 

god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw, 

nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the 

present hour, 

to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth, 

to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened 

in the night 

To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind! 

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? 

While the soul, after all, is only a window, 

and the opening of the window no more difficult 

than the wakening from a little sleep. 

Only last week I went out among the thorns and said 

to the wild roses: 

deny me not, 

but suffer my devotion. 

Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe 

I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red, 

hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies. 

For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters, 

caution and prudence? 

Fall in! Fall in! 

A woman standing in the weeds. 

A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next 

is coming with its own heave and grace. 

Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things, 

upon the immutable. 

What more could one ask? 

And I would touch the faces of the daises, 

and I would bow down 

to think about it. 

That was then, which hasn't ended yet. 

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light, 

I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge. 

I climb, I backtrack. 

I float. 

I ramble my way home.