by Mary Oliver
I love Orion, his fiery body, his ten stars,
his flaring points of reference, his shining dogs.
“It is winter,” he says.
“We must eat,” he says. Our gloomy
and passionate teacher.
in the cold woods, with the mouse and the owl,
with the clearness of water sheeted and hidden,
with the reason for the wind forever a secret,
he descends and sits with me, his voice
like the snapping of bones.
everything is so black and unclassical; behind him
I don’t know anything, not even
my own mind.