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.
--Mary Oliver
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