The Storm
--Mary Oliver (1935 - 2019)

Now through the white orchard my little dog
....romps, breaking the new snow
....with wild feet.
Running here running there, excited,
....hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins
until the white snow is written upon
....in large, exuberant letters,
a long sentence, expressing
....the pleasures of the body in this world. 

Oh, I cold not have said it better
....myself.