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The Moth, The Mountains, The Rivers By Mary Oliver

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 clarity?

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.