The Black
Snake
When the black snake
flashed onto the morning road,
and the truck could not swerve--
death, that is how it happens.
Now he lies looped and
useless
as an old bicycle tire.
I stop the car
and carry him into the bushes.
as an old bicycle tire.
I stop the car
and carry him into the bushes.
He is as cool and gleaming
as a braided whip, he is as beautiful and quiet
as a dead brother.
I leave him under the leaves
as a braided whip, he is as beautiful and quiet
as a dead brother.
I leave him under the leaves
and drive on, thinking
about death: its suddenness,
its terrible weight,
its certain coming. Yet under
about death: its suddenness,
its terrible weight,
its certain coming. Yet under
reason burns a brighter
fire, which the bones
have always preferred.
It is the story of endless good fortune.
It says to oblivion: not me!
have always preferred.
It is the story of endless good fortune.
It says to oblivion: not me!
It is the light at the
center of every cell.
It is what sent the snake coiling and flowing forward
happily all spring through the green leaves before
he came to the road.
It is what sent the snake coiling and flowing forward
happily all spring through the green leaves before
he came to the road.
~ Mary Oliver ~
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