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Meanwhile, once in a while,
I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?

And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down to think about it.

That was then, which hasn’t ended yet.

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean’s edge.

I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.

— Mary Oliver, Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches? | West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems

Thanks, C.

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