by Mary Oliver
There’s a place where the town ends,
and the fields begin.
It’s not marked but the feet know it,
also the heart that is longing for refreshment
and, equally, for repose.
Someday we’ll live in the sky.
Meanwhile, the house of our lives is this green world.
The fields, the ponds, the birds.
The thick black oaks – surely they are
the invention of something wonderful.
And the tiger lilies.
And the runaway honeysuckle that no one will ever trim again.
Where is it? I ask, and then
my feet know it.
One jump, and I’m home.