Softest of mornings, hello
Softest of mornings, hello.
And what will you do today, I wonder, to my heart?
And how much honey can the heart stand, I wonder, before it must break?
This is trivial, or nothing: a snail climbing a trellis of leaves and the blue trumpets of flowers.
No doubt clocks are ticking loudly all over the world.
I don’t hear them. The snail’s pale horns extend and wave this way and that as her fingers-body shuffles forward, leaving behind the silvery path of her slime.
Oh, softest of mornings, how shall I break this?
How shall I move away from the snail, and the flowers?
How shall I go on, with my introspective and ambitious life?
“Softest of Mornings” by Mary Oliver
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(thank you)