Yoshitaka Amano, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touchedby the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
Mary Oliver, “The Poet With His Face in His Hands” (via luvsongs)
