It was raining when I woke up this morning, like a blanket on the day of necessity and reminded me of a favorite poem…


Black Oaks
by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance 
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays 
carp and whistle
all day in the branches, without 
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I’m pale with
longing 
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can’t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours,
a
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight
from
 one boot to another — why don’t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists

of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,

I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.