At last count, eight inches outside my front door.

There is something
     about the snow-laden sky
          in winter
               in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
     and the lovely meaninglessness
          of time.
               Whenever I get home- whenever-

somebody loves me there.
     Meanwhile,
          I stand in the same dark peace
               as any pine tree,

or wander on slowly
     like the still unhurried wind,
          waiting,
               as for a gift,

for the snow to begin
     which it does
          at first casually,
               then, irrepressibly.

Wherever else I live-
     in music, in words,
          in the fires of the heart,
               I abide just as deeply

in this nameless, indivisible place,
     this world,
          which is falling apart now,
               which is white and wild,

which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
     our deepest prayers.
          Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
               Red-cheeked from the roused wind,

I'll stand in the doorway,
     stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
          my shoulders
               covered with stars.

                                                                                  -Mary Oliver