first progeny of a rocket scientist and a basket weaver while on the run from the law....you think i'm kidding. born under the protection of hardwoods and a babbling stream. no indoor plumbing, but oh the smell of the honeysuckles. keep on moving, the fumes turned to orange blossoms and daily doses of sunshine, climbing trees on the isle 'o merit.
pasta and olives.
gators and opposums.
humidity.
the past molds you forever.
now i live in oregon and spend lots of time on farms looking at potatoes.
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Last night
in the fields,
I lay down in the darkness
to think about death,
but instead I fell asleep,
as if in a vast and sloping room
filled with those white flowers
that open all summer,
sticky and untidy, in the warm fields.
When I woke
the morning light was just slipping
in front of the stars,
and I was covered
with blossoms.
I don’t know
how it happened—
I don’t know
if my body went diving down
under the sugary vines
in some sleep-sharpened affinity
with the depths, or whether
that green energy
rose like a wave
and curled over me, claiming me in its husky arms.
I pushed them away, but I didn’t rise.
Never in my life had I felt so plush,
or so slippery, or so resplendently empty.
Never in my life
had I felt so near
that porous line
where my own body was done with
and the roots and the stems and the flowers
began
...white flowers by mary oliver
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