Drea Art
Beauty
By Mary Oliver
When the owl
on her plush and soundless wings
rises
from the black waves
of the oak leaves,
or floats
out of the needles
of the pines
that are moaning,
that are tossing,
I think:
o she is beautiful
with her eyes
like burning moons,
with her feet
like twisted braids
of old gold
flexing and curling –
and I am glad to see her –
some wild loyalty has me
to the root of the heart –
even when she ruffles down
into the field
and jabs like a mad thing
and it’s hopeless,
it’s also wonderful,
so I thank
whatever made her –
this beast of a bird
with her thick breast
and her shimmering wings –
whose nest, in the dark trees,
is trimmed with screams and bones –
whose beak
is the most terrible cup I will ever enter.
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