This was taken last year almost exactly one year ago. The meadow is developing the same way now. The bare tree isn't quite bare yet and the red tree isn't red clear to the bottom.
Autumn is The Season of Seasons in Northern Michigan
and I am very grateful that I get to be here again this year.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Mary Oliver
This is her title poem from Wild Geese, Bloodaxe Books, 2004
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