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POEM OF THE WEEK
Spring
And here is the serpent again
dragging himself out from his next of darkness,
his cave under the black rocks,
his winter-death.
He slides over the pine needles.
He loops around the bunches of rising grass,
looking for the sun.
Well, who doesn’t want the sun after the long winter?
I step aside,
He feels the air with his soft tongue,
around the bones of his body he moves like oil,
Downhill he goes
toward the black mirrors of the pond.
Last night it was so cold
I woke and went out to stand in the yard,
and there was no moon.
So I just stood there, inside the jaw of nothing.
An owl cried in the distance,
I thought of Jesus, how he
crouched in the dark for two nights,
then floated back above the horizon.
There are so many stories,
more beautiful than answers.
I follow the snake down to the pond,
thick and musky he is
as circular as hope.
Mary Oliver
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