"Out of the Stump Rot, Something" by Mary Oliver

Out of the stump rot

something

glides forward

that is not a rope,

unless a rope has eyes,

lips,

tongue like a smack of smoke,

body without shoulders.

Thus: the black snake

floating

over the leaves

of the old year

and down to the pond,

to the green just beginning

to fuzzle out of the earth,

also, like smoke.

If you like a prettiness,

don't come here.

Look at pictures instead,

or wait for the daffodils.

This is spring,

by the rattled pond, in the shambled woods,

as spring has always been

and will always be

no matter what we do

in the suburbs.

The matted fur,

the red blood,

the bats unshuttering

their terrible faces,

and black snake

gliding across the field

you think you own.

Long neck, long tail.

Tongue on fire.

Heart of stone.

"Out of the Stump Rot, Something" by Mary Oliver, from A Thousand Mornings, 2012.