It’s my birthday. I’m not writing today. My gift to any who come looking: a poem by one of my favorites, Mary Oliver.
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody own, I spend
all day among the high
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.