For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond. It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.
And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.
What I want to say is
that the past is the past, and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
from Red Bird: Poems by Mary Oliver (Boston: Beacon Press, 2008), p.57.
~With a nod to Third Story Window where I read this poem in my blog wanderings this morning. It fed my soul, so I'm sharing it with you in honor of April and National Poetry Month.
And now I'm going out on this warm afternoon in search of a pond.