words

I stumbled upon this poem tonight.  What is it about poetry and the way it enables your soul to breath?

It also made me wish for a poetry reading night with friends.  Who would be in for that?  A pot of cider on the stove, a log on the fire, and nothing but the spoken words of comrades enveloped in pentameter and metaphor.  It's enough to make me shiver with excitement.

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
--Mary Oliver, Dream Work