There are as many worlds as there are imaginers. - The Boat (in “Winter Hours”) - Mary Oliver

When it's over, I want to say all my life I was a bride married to amazement.

I thought:
maybe death
isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us — as soft as feathers — that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow — that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light — in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones. — White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness.