Mary Oliver

Time Passes

And now Percy is getting brazen.
“Let’s down the beach, baby,” he says,
“Let’s shake it with a little barking.
Let’s find dead things, and explore them,
by mouth, if possible.”

Or maybe the leavings of Paul’s horse (after which,
forgive me for mentioning it, he is fond of kissing).

Ah, this is the thing that comes to each of us.
The child grows up.
And, according to our own ideas, is practically asunder.

I understand it.
I struggle to celebrate.
I say, with a stiff upper lip familiar to many:

Just look at that curly-haired child now, he’s his own man.