Monday, May 18, 2015

Heron Rises from the Dark, Summer Pond (Mary Oliver)

So heavy 
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron, 
always it is a surprise 
when her smoke-colored wings 
open 
and she turns 
from the thick water, 
from the black sticks 

of the summer pond, 
and slowly 
rises into the air 
and is gone. 

Then, not for the first or the last time, 
I take the deep breath 
of happiness, and I think 
how unlikely it is 

that death is a hole in the ground, 
how improbable 
that ascension is not possible, 
though everything seems so inert, so nailed 

back into itself— 
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge, 
the turtle, 
the fallen gate. 

And especially it is wonderful 
that the summers are long 
and the ponds so dark and so many, 
and therefore it isn’t a miracle 

but the common thing, 
this decision, 
this trailing of the long legs in the water, 
this opening up of the heavy body 

into a new life:  see how the sudden 
gray-blue sheets of her wings 
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
                  takes her in. 
--Mary Oliver

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