From Mary Oliver's Poem "Flare"
Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self pity.
Not in this world.
2 comments:
I really appreciate this poem. It's so Ojaio too. It actually brought a tear to my eye. Thank you for sharing. :)
fiestyness and not a drop of self pity. That's my Emily, too. :)
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