(20” x 20” Mixed Media Painting on Watercolor Paper - Framed)
-Five A.M. in the Pinewoods-
I’d seen their hoofprints in the deep needles and knew they ended the long night
under the pines walking like two mute women toward the deeper woods,
so I got up in the dark and went there. They came slowly down the hill and
looked at me sitting under the blue trees, shyly they stepped closer and stared
from under their thick lashes and even nibbled some damp tassels of weeds.
This is not a poem about a dream, though it could be.
This is a poem about the world, that is ours or could be.
Finally
one of them— I swear it!—
would have come to my arms.
But the other stamped sharp hoof in the pine needles like the tap of sanity,
and they went off together through the trees.
When I woke I was alone, I was thinking:
so this is how you swim inward,
so this is how you flow outward,
so this is how you pray.
—Mary Oliver
(20” x 20” Mixed Media Painting on Watercolor Paper - Framed)
-Five A.M. in the Pinewoods-
I’d seen their hoofprints in the deep needles and knew they ended the long night
under the pines walking like two mute women toward the deeper woods,
so I got up in the dark and went there. They came slowly down the hill and
looked at me sitting under the blue trees, shyly they stepped closer and stared
from under their thick lashes and even nibbled some damp tassels of weeds.
This is not a poem about a dream, though it could be.
This is a poem about the world, that is ours or could be.
Finally
one of them— I swear it!—
would have come to my arms.
But the other stamped sharp hoof in the pine needles like the tap of sanity,
and they went off together through the trees.
When I woke I was alone, I was thinking:
so this is how you swim inward,
so this is how you flow outward,
so this is how you pray.
—Mary Oliver
