There’s a bear in the Truro woods.
People have seen it–three or four,
or two, or one. I think
of the thickness of the serious woods
around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds;
I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles,
the cranberry bogs. And the sky
with its new moon, its familiar star-trails,
burns down like a brand-new heaven,
while everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides
shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely
a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly
through the woods for years, learning to stay away
from roads and houses. Common sense mutters:
it can’t be true, it must be somebody’s
runaway dog. But the seed
has been planted, and when has happiness ever
required much evidence to begin
its leaf-green breathing?

~Mary Oliver

That’s a wrap on National Poetry Month! Feels fitting to conclude with Mary Oliver. I love the imagery in this 1979 poem. I’ve never seen a bear in the wild, although they’re quite prevalent in the Adirondacks. Up in the Great North Woods, seeing a bear would be less of a matter for commentary than seeing Bigfoot. (For the record: I’ve also never seen him.) But I love the way Oliver, here, nods to common sense – it’s probably just someone’s dog – before dismissing logic in favor of happiness and fun.

Speaking of fun, did you enjoy National Poetry Month?