Well, this week the words just aren’t coming to me, so instead of trying to fake it I’ll leave folks with a few of my favorite words from one of my favorite poets: Mary Oliver.  This poem of hers continues with the theme I started exploring last week, a theme that I think is fundamental to any understanding of primitivism, or just life, for that matter.  That life (and death) are not to be denied, but instead loved.  Please sit with this poem for awhile.  Let it sink in deep, if you will.  Listen to the words of our brother, the Fox.

Straight Talk from Fox

Listen says fox it is music to run

  over the hills to lick

dew from the leaves to nose along

  the edges of the ponds to smell the fat

ducks in their bright feathers but

  far out, safe in their rafts of

sleep.  It is like

  music to visit the orchard, to find

the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the

  rabbit with his fast-beating heart.  Death itself

is a music.  Nobody has ever come close to

  writing it down, awake or in a dream.  It cannot

be told.  It is flesh and bones

  changing shape and with good cause, mercy

is a little child beside such an invention.  It is

  music to wander the black back roads

outside of town no one awake or wondering

  if anything miraculous is ever going to

happen, totally dumb to the fact of every

  moment’s miracle.  Don’t think I haven’t

peeked into windows.  I see you in all your seasons

  making love, arguing, talking about God

as if he were an idea instead of the grass,

  instead of the stars, the rabbit caught

in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought

  home to the den.  What I am, and I know it, is

responsible, joyful, thankful.  I would not

  give my life for a thousand of yours.

–Fox (translated by Mary Oliver)