As I move back and forth in my gardens, I marvel at the plants basking in the sun. A perfume made up of all the growing things makes me feel nostalgic. Somehow, the scent reminds me of home.
THE MOTH, THE MOUNTAINS,
Who can guess the luna's sadness who lives so
briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone
longing to be ground down, to be part again of
something livelier? Who can imagine in what
heaviness the rivers remember their original
Strange questions, yet I have spent worthwhile
time with them. And I suggest them to you also,
that your spirit grow in curiosity, that your life
be richer than it is, that you bow to the earth as
you feel how it actually is, that we - so clever, and
ambitious, and selfish, and unrestrained -- are only
one design of the moving, the vivacious many.
Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings