Spring
by Mary Oliver


Somewhere     
   a black bear       
      has just risen from sleep         
          and is staring

down the mountain.
   All night       
      in the brisk and shallow restlessness          
         of early spring

I think of her,     
   her four black fists       
      flicking the gravel,          
         her tongue

like a red fire     
   touching the grass,       
      the cold water.          
         There is only one question:

how to love this world.     
   I think of her       
      rising          
         like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against     
   the silence       
      of the trees.          
         Whatever else

my life is    
   with its poems       
      and its music          
         and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness     
   coming       
      down the mountain,         
         breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her—     
   her white teeth,       
      her wordlessness,          
         her perfect love.