For Mary, Wherever She May Walk

A Poem by Perdition

Mary Oliver who will be greatly missed and celebrated

Ah, but to wake with the predawn all so sudden

to feel its rain growl,

your knees wet with the miles as the fields and beads begin,

so new, this listening of a cricket slipping from the intangible to its eventual fate , the shallow ice, removing again its momentary, and you hear his death as if for the first time your

love has ever called,

or crawling from life’s enormous well you touch

while drinking from this source, a leaf, a blade, a distant horn as you let the hours fall away, as you let the loss and thimbling stumble through, the afternoon among the sunflowers deciding to join for no reason other than to join-

to be as the fire in its red renewal of sunrise

to burn like a fresh kindle of wood

dry as the wine you drank the night before

still insisting

to burn our margins

the ones that hide

the ones we swore inside euphoria

returning us just the same

though who will catch us in these hours of dream

who will go into these dark betweens, into the riptide, releasing all obsessed when so much possesses between life and tomorrow

And though the frog with geese, in time begin to

know their way, it

is never quite the same

and never is life so over

as we go forward among the lost

among the freedoms by which the air warps in sense of logic

in sense of love surrounding the fledgling

surrounding the fate that it will also carry the sparrow’s song

down into a higher limb, down into the owl’s ear, disappearing with the silence,

into moments such as these

© 2019 Perdition

Author's Note

Well...at least now we know when I lost it.

My Review

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Reviews

jacob erin-cilberto

winter, thoughts of her...a symphony that sounds outside his window...
great imagery....the memory, the longing...the dark in between times waiting for her to return...and winter to melt into spring love.
at least that is how this spoke to me.
wonderful imagery, perdition.
j.

Posted 5 Years Ago

barleygirl

As a hopelessly linear & literal writer, I marvel at the way you speak in imagery better than any whimsical writer (many great ones) that I struggle to understand here at the cafe. I admire your word-crafting & aspire to "let go" a little more in my own writing, to soar in the realm of the sensory as you do. The second stanza of this poem is stunningly beautiful & full of feeling & longing (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie