✺

August
by Mary Oliver

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods,
in the brambles nobody owns,
I spend all day among the high
branches, reaching
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.

✺

Poem: August

Poem: August Morning

Poem: August Third

Poem: August 1942

August Day Song

August

✺