Now the woods are empty,
the ponds shine like blind eyes,
the wind is shouldering against
the black, wet
bones of the trees.
In the house down the road,
As though I had never seen these things –
leaves, the loose tons of water,
a bird with an eye like a full moon
deciding not to die after all –
I sit out the long afternoons
drinking and talking;
I gather wood, kindling paper; I make fire
after fire after sfireq.
-Mary Oliver, American Primitive