8. The Garden
What I want to know, please, is
what is possible, and what is not.
If it is not, then I am for it.
My heat is out of its flesh-phase.
I am done with all of it, the habits, the patience.
Whoever I was, it is growing hazy and forgettable.
Whoever I am it is for mere appearance's sake.
It is for coin, and foolishness,
and I am thinking of something better.
All morning it has been raining.
In the language of the garden, this is happiness.
The tissues perk and shine.
Truely this is the poem worth keeping.
A mossy house anyone with any sense would enter
as soon as the soul begins
to desire the impossible.
~Mary Oliver
Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the self. The Bhagavad Gita
No comments:
Post a Comment