changing; things are starting to
spin, snap, fly off into
the blue sleeve of the long
afternoon. 𝘖𝘩 and 𝘰𝘰𝘩
come whistling out of the perished mouth
of the grass, as things
turn soft, boil back
into substance and hue. As everything,
forgetting its own enchantment, whispers:
I too love oblivion why not it is full
of second chances. 𝘕𝘰𝘸,
hiss the bright curls of the leaves. 𝘕𝘰𝘸!
booms the muscle of the wind.
– Mary Oliver –