Forty years

Forty Years
By Mary Oliver


for forty years
the sheets of white paper have
passed under my hands and I have tried
to improve their peaceful

emptiness putting down
little curls little shafts
of letters words
 little flames leaping

not one page
was less to me than fascinating
discursive full of cadence
 its pale nerves hiding

in the curves of the Qs
behind the soldierly Hs
in the webbed feet of the Ws
  forty years

and again this morning as always
I am stopped as the world comes back
wet and beautiful I am thinking
  that language

is not even a river
is not a tree is not a green field
is not even a black ant traveling
  briskly modestly

from day to day from one
golden page to another.

Published by The grey clover

Welcome to The grey clover. My name is Mayowa. I'm a physiotherapy student. I am also a lover of Literature, Arts, Science and technology. I have several interests which includes writing poetry, photography, fashion designing and there are still much more things I hope to learn. Thanks for stopping by!

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