White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with
wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was
there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings -- five
feet apart --
and the grabbing thrust of its
feet,
and the indentation of what had
been running
through the white valleys of the
snow --
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little
lighthouse,
in the blue shadows --
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness after
all
but so much light wrapping itself
around us --
as soft as feathers
that we are instantly weary of
looking, and looking
and shut our eyes, not with
amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of
mica,
to the river that is without the
least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light --
scalding, aortal light --
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
--Mary Oliver
During the month of November, we remember All Souls...
No comments:
Post a Comment