Mary Oliver





The Storm (Bear)

Now through the white orchard my little dog
         romps, breaking the new snow
         with wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
         hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
         in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
         the pleasures of the body in this world.

Oh, I could not have said it better
         myself.