Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?

Can’t fly, can’t run and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, I can read books.

“What’s that you’re doing?” the green headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

“What’s that you’re doing?” whispers the wind, pausing in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its strange staring, silver face.

It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.

“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distallation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

~by Mary Oliver from her book of poems, Blue Iris