our morning wandering an old, wrinkled garden


our morning wandering an old, wrinkled garden

friday morning

the twelfth


. . .

ordinarily, i go to the woods alone,

with not a single friend,

for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.

i don't really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds

or hugging the old black oak tree.

i have my way of praying,

as you no doubt have yours.

besides, when i am alone i can become invisible.

i can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,

until the foxes run by unconcerned.

i can hear the almost unbearable sound of the roses singing.

if you have ever gone to the woods with me,

i must love you very much."

mary oliver

glimpses of our morning wandering an old, wrinkled garden, where

she climbs the champa tree,

an old man gathers a bouquet of madhumalati flowers,

we see two young butterflies practice fluttering in the air,

pomegranates half-eaten by birds still hang on the tree,

an assembly of green papayas are deep in conversation,

the sun and wind frolic between the palm branches,

bees hover busily in the hummingbird bush,


tiny clover flowers rise their yellow heads along the overgrown paths

where, a riotous world camouflaged in quietness awaits.

for you to add to its quiet rioting.

. . .