Drea Art
dreajensengallery.pixels.com
facebook.com/dreajensenart
virtualartistaltar.com

Blossom by Mary Oliver

In April
the ponds open
like black blossoms, 
the moon
swims in every one; 
there’s fire
everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire, 
their satisfaction. What
we know: that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: joy
before death, nights 
in the swale – everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know: we are more
than blood – we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals
into the fire, 
into the night where time lies shattered
into the body of another.

Drea Art
dreajensengallery.pixels.com
facebook.com/dreajensenart
virtualartistaltar.com

No Matter What by Mary Oliver

No matter what the world claims,
its wisdom always growing, so it’s said,
some things don’t alter with time: 
the first kiss is a good example,
and the flighty sweetness of rhyme.

No matter what the world preaches
spring unfolds in its appointed time,
the violets open and the roses,
snow in its hour builds its shining curves,
there’s the laughter of children at play,
and the wholesome sweetness of rhyme.

No matter what the world does, 
some things don’t alter with time.
The first kiss, the first death.
The sorrowful sweetness of rhyme.