Spring

Spring
–Mary Oliver
from New and Select­ed Poems

Some­where
    a black bear
      has just risen from sleep
        and is staring

down the mountain.
     All night
       in the brisk and shal­low restlessness
         of ear­ly spring

I think of her,
     her four black fists
       flick­ing the gravel,
         her tongue

like a red fire
     touch­ing the grass,
       the cold water.
         There is only one question:

how to love this world.
     I think of her
       rising
         like a black and leafy ledge

to sharp­en her claws against
     the silence
       of the trees.
         What­ev­er else

my life is
     with its poems
       and its music
         and its glass cities,

it is also this daz­zling darkness
     coming
       down the mountain,
         breath­ing and tasting;

all day I think of her–
     her white teeth,
       her wordlessness,
         her per­fect love.