The Poet Dreams of the Mountain  Sometimes I grow weary of the days with all their fits and starts.I want to climb some old grey mountain, slowly, takingthe rest of my life to do it, resting often, sleepingunder the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.I want to see how many stars are still in the skythat we have smothered for years now, forgiving it all,and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.All that urgency!  Not what the earth is about!How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall. - Mary Oliver Photo from when me and my friend Emma escaped to the wilderness the other day. 
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The Poet Dreams of the Mountain 

Sometimes I grow weary of the days with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old grey mountain, slowly, taking
the rest of my life to do it, resting often, sleeping
under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
that we have smothered for years now, forgiving it all,
and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency!  Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.

- Mary Oliver

Photo from when me and my friend Emma escaped to the wilderness the other day. 

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