Do stones feel?
Do they love their life?
Or does their patience drown out everything else?
While I walk on the beach I gather a few
white ones, dark ones, the multiple colors.
Don't worry, I say, I'll bring you back, and I do.
Is the tree as it rises delighted with its many
each one like a poem?
Are the clouds glad to unburden their bundles of rain?
Most of the world says no, no, it's not possible.
I refuse to think to such a conclusion.
To terrible it would be, to be wrong.
(Mary Oliver, Blue Horses)