Equinox

The sun, riding lower in the sky

Sweeps a swifter, paler arc

In allegro time.

Spendthrift, it tosses

Handfuls of shimmering stars.

Tiny diamonds

Alight, spangling the rippled lake,

Floating, twirling, dancing,

Stirred by the first yawning breaths

Of Boreas.

Crisp, cool, clarity.

Air alive

With the bustle of change

And anticipation.

Electric currents

Of preparation.

The trees whisper to the sky:

The tipping point

Will soon be here.

Three guesses as to which one needs to be restrained so that the other one can have a turn.

For all the said,
I could not see the waterfall
until I came and saw the water falling,
its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down,

while something howled like thunder,
over the rocks,
all day and all night –
unspooling

like ribbons made of snow,
or god’s white hair.
At any distance
it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple

preponderance –
a fall of flowers – and truly it seemed
surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and
light-hearted to be

flying at last.
Gravity is a fact everybody
knows about.
It is always underfoot,

like a summons,
gravel-backed and mossy,
in every beetled basin –
and imagination –

that striver,
that third eye –
can do a lot but
hardly everything. The white, scrolled

wings of the tumbling water
I never could have
imagined. And maybe there will be,
after all,

some slack and perfectly balanced
blind and rough peace, finally,
in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that
falling?

                                                   -mary oliver