Gratefully 2014 by Drea
We make decisions to find our truth, take courage to act, and gratefully change begins.
WHAT GORGEOUS THING
I do not know what gorgeous thing
the bluebird keeps saying,
his voice easing out of his throat,
beak, body into the pink air
of the early morning. I like it
whatever it is. Sometimes
it seems the only thing in the world
that is without dark thoughts.
Sometimes it seems the only thing
in the world that is without
questions that can’t and probably
never will be answered, the
only thing that is entirely content
with the pink, then clear white
morning and, gratefully, says so.
~ Mary Oliver
THE OAK TREE LOVES PATIENCE
The oak tree
the mountain is
as it has for centuries,
for a word to say about
the gradual way it
back to the
to begin again,
in another life,
to be fertile.
When the wind blows
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.
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
I’M FEELING FABULOUS, POSSIBLY TOO MUCH SO.
BUT I LOVE IT
It’s spring and the Mockingbird is teaching himself
new ways to celebrate.
If you can imagine that–that gutsy talker.
And the sky is painting itself a brand-new
plenty of which is spilling into the pond.
I don’t weigh very much, but right now
I weigh nothing.
And my mind is, I guess you would say, compounded.
One voice is saying, Ah, it’s Mockingbird.
Another voice is saying, The pond never looked
this blue before.
Another voice says, There couldn’t be a more
splendid world, and here I am
existing in it.
I think, just for the joy of it, I’ll fly.
I believe I could.
And yet another voice says, Can we come down
from the clouds now?
And some other voice answers, Okay.
But only for a while.
~ By Mary Oliver
As I said before, I am living now
in a warm place, surrounded by
mangroves. Mostly I walk beside
them, they discourage entrance.
The black oaks and the pines
of my northern home are in my heart,
even as I hear them whisper, “Listen,
we are trees too.” Okay, I’m trying. They
certainly put on an endless performance
of leaves. Admiring is easy, but affinity,
that does take some time. So many
and so leggy and all of them rising as if
attempting to escape this world which, don’t
they know it, can’t be done. “Are you
trying to fly or what?” I ask, and they
answer back, “We are what we are, you
are what you are, love us if you can.”
~ by Mary Oliver
Today would have been Georgia O’Keeffe’s 127th birthday. Happy Birthday Georgia!
like a cat
on silent feet
about my own house~
while you were sleeping,
sprayed on the pillow,
safe and solitary,
and my doors
shut for your safety
and your comfort.
I did this
thinking I was intruding,
yet wanting to see
the most beautiful thing
that has ever been in my house.
~ Mary Oliver
As deep as I ever went into the forest
I came upon an old stone bench, very, very old,
and around it a clearing, and beyond that
trees taller and older than I had ever seen.
It really wasn’t so far from a town, but it seemed
all the clocks in the world had stopped counting.
So it was hard to suppose the usual rules applied.
Sometimes there’s only a hint, a possibility.
What’s magical, sometimes, has deeper roots
I hope everyone knows that.
I sat on the bench, waiting for something.
An angel, perhaps.
Or dancers with the legs of goats.
No, I didn’t see either. But only, I think, because
I didn’t stay long enough.
By Mary Oliver
ON NOT MOWING THE LAWN
Let the grass spring up tall, let its roots sing
and the seeds begin their scattering.
Let the weeds rejoin and be prolific throughout.
Let the noise of the mower be banished, hurrah!
Let the path become where I choose to walk, and not
Let the goldfinches be furnished their humble dinner.
Let the sparrows determine their homes in security.
Let the honeysuckle reach as high as my window, that it
may look in.
Let the mice fill their barns and bins with a sufficiency.
Let anything be created, that wants to creep or leap
be able to do so.
Let the grasshopper have gliding space.
Let the noise of the mower be banished, yes, yes.
Let the katydid return and announce himself in the
Let the blades of grass surge back from the last
Or, if you want to be poetic: the leaves of grass.
By Mary Oliver