Wild, Wild (by Mary Oliver)

This is what love is:

the dry rose bush the gardener, in his pruning, missed

suddenly bursts into bloom.

A madness of delight; an obsession.

A holy gift, certainly.

But often, alas, improbable.

Why couldn’t Romeo have settle for someone else?

Why couldn’t Tristan and Isolde have refused

The shining cup

Which would have left peaceful the whole kingdom?

Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests

of our lives.

Over and over Faust, standing in the garden, doesn’t know

anything that’s going to happen, he only sees

the face of Marguerite, which is irresistible.

And wild, wild sings the bird.