The Roses, by Mary Oliver

“All afternoon, I have been walking over the dunes, hurrying from one thing raft of the wrinkled, salt roses to another, leaning down close to their dark or pale petals, red as blood or white as snow. And now I am beginning to breathe slowly and evenly- the way a hunted animal lives, finally, when it has galloped and galloped – when it is wrung dry, but, at last, is far away. Hence, the panic begins to drain from the chest, beautiful legs, and exhausted mind.

Oh, sweetness, pure and simple, may I join you?

I lie down next to them on the sand. But to tell you about what happens next, I truly need help.”

-Roses, Mary Oliver