Drea Art
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An Old Story by Mary Oliver

Sleep comes its little while. Then I wake
in the valley of midnight or three a.m.
to the first fragrance of spring

which is coming, all by itself, no matter what.
My heart says, what you thought you have you do not have.
My body says, will this pounding ever stop?

My heart says, there, there, be a good student.
My body says let me up and out. I want to fondle
those soft white flowers, open in the night.