Patience by Mary Oliver.

The oak tree

loves patience,

the mountain is

still looking,

as it has for centuries,

for a word to say about

the gradual way it

slides itself

back to the

world below

to begin again,

in another life,

to be fertile.

When the wind blows

the grass

whistles and whispers

in myths and riddles

and not in our language

but one far older.

The sea is the sea is

always the sea.

These things

you can count on

as you walk about the world

happy or sad,

talky or silent, making

weapons, love, poems.

The briefest of fires.

Mary Oliver, Patience