Monday, August 19, 2024

Poem: “August” by Mary Oliver

When the blackberries hang 

swollen in the woods, in the brambles 

nobody owns, I spend 

 

all day among the high 

branches, reaching 

my ripped arms, thinking 

 

of nothing, cramming 

the black honey of summer 

into my mouth; all day my body 

 

accepts what it is. In the dark 

creeks that run by there is 

this thick paw of my life-darting among 

 

the black bells, the leaves; there is 

this happy tongue. 

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