how I see the hopeful, waning days

Mary Oliver poems are amazing

because you’ll be like

“I feel bereft and hopeless and so alone,”

and shel’ll be like,

“Ok, but have you ever really thought about moss?”

And it turns out you haven’t.

~Jessica Ellis

forget how, just ask why…..

inquiry for today~ take yourself to the woods for a little while…

it’s all I have

Not in shyness but in disgust

the owl

turns its face from me and pours itself

into the air, hurrying

until it is out of sight—

and, after all,

even if we came by some miracle

upon a language which we both knew,

what is it I might say

there in the orange light of early morning,

in the owl’s resting time,

that would have any pluck and worth in it?—

not admonition, or blame,

and not recrimination,

and not, I say, unholy weeping,

and not, for god’s sake, any bending of the knees

in the cold and rough grass

under its gold and glassy eyes

which, in such a conversation, you must imagine

turned upon you.

So I cannot improve upon the scene

as it happens:

my opportunity

and my stony silence

as death

rises up—

god’s bark-colored thumb—

and opens the sheath of its wings

and turns its hungry, hooked head

upon me, and away,

and softly,

lamp-eyed,

becomes the perfect, billowing instrument

as it glides

through the wind

like a knife.

~Mary Oliver

5 thoughts on “how I see the hopeful, waning days

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