The enclosure of yourself

for how many years have you gone through the house

shutting the windows,

while the rain was still five miles away

 

and veering, o plum-colored clouds, to the north

away from you

 

and you did not even know enough

to be sorry,

 

you were glad

those silver sheets, with the occasional golden staple,

 

were sweeping on, elsewhere,

violent and electric and uncontrollable--

 

and will you find yourself finally wanting to forget

all enclosures, including

 

the enclosure of yourself, o lonely leaf, and will you

dash finally, frantically,

 

to the windows and haul them open and lean out

to the dark, silvered sky, to everything

 

that is beyond capture, shouting

i'm here, i'm here! now, now, now, now, now.

 

~ Mary Oliver

 

Done