And, When The Time Comes To Let It Go, To Let It Go.
Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. “in blackwater woods” by mary oliver, from american primitive. Your own life depends on it;
