Poem: “Roses, Late Summer” by Mary Oliver

 What happens 

to the leaves after 

they turn red and golden and fall 

away? What happens 

 

to the singing birds 

when they can’t sing 

any longer? What happens

to their quick wings? 

 

Do you think there is any 

personal heaven 

for any of us? 

Do you think anyone, 

 

the other side of that darkness, 

will call to us, meaning us? 

Beyond the trees 

the foxes keep teaching their children 

 

to live in the valley. 

So they never seem to vanish, they are always there 

in the blossom of light 

that stands up every morning 

in the dark sky. 

And over one more set of hills, 

along the sea, 

the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness 

 

and are giving it back to the world. 

If I had another life 

I would want to spend it all on some 

unstinting happiness. 

 

I would be a fox, or a tree 

full of waving branches. 

I wouldn’t mind being a rose 

in a field full of roses. 

 

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition. 

Reason they have not yet thought of. 

Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what. 

Or any other foolish question.