Wild Geese

I sent this little poem to a friend a couple of weeks ago, just because it snagged my attention as I was rummaging through one of my anthologies and I thought he'd think it was nice. I told him I'd sent him some mail--to be on the lookout--but it seemed to have gotten lost and wasn't making any appearances in his mailbox. Then, yesterday, after I had pretty much given up hope that it would get there at all, it materialized on his doorstep.

It'd been a bad day, he said, and the poem was a good thing to get. Life has such funny and serendipitous timing. So I thought maybe I'd post it here too, because I'd like to send it to everybody, but I don't have all of your addresses.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver