Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver's words are like none other-she is now officially my favorite poet. She speaks a language of the soul so simple that all can connect with her words.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean
--the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down
--who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver


Blogger Mark Walter said...

Ms. Oliver makes a good point. We tend to kinda let that point drip off of our consciousness... until we are ready to die or find ourselves on the other side.

11:44 PM  
Blogger Buford said...

I do not question the Who. I accept that it just is.

The writer has succeeded in the very thing she is trying to find. Just being there, experiencing, she has succeeded by default.

I plan to live until it’s over.

See you Tuesday!!

9:24 AM  

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