There are a few creatures on this earth of ours,
that I like to imagine
know just about everything
there is to know:
cats, of course; and the cherry blossom fully illuminated;
and Mary Oliver. The cat rushes
to his square window and I to mine,
desperate for confirmation of some murky desire of the heart
that has not – in us, at least – blossomed into words.
Mary Oliver has read Socrates, and just the other day
Socrates saw a red bird:
and so he I think he will forgive me
for saying that the only true knowledge
is a sparrow flying under the wings of an American Sweetgum
whether or not I am there to see it.