Not This, Not That
nor anything,
not the eastern wind whose other name is rain,
nor the burning heats of the dunes
nor the crown of summer,
nor the ticks, that new, ferocious populace,
not the President who loves blood,
not the governmental agencies that love money,
will alter
my love for you, my friends and my beloved,
or for you, oh ghosts of Emerson and Whitman,
or for you, oh blue sky of a summer morning,
that makes me roll in a barrel of gratitude down hills,
or for you, oldest friends: hope;
or for you, newest friends: faith;
or for you, silliest and dearest of surprises, my own life.
Mary Oliver, Red Bird
