So I Turn To Mary Oliver


. . . For Deana, who did her best to save him.

Young Thrush

Young Thrush

On the evening following the evening

Of the day of the death (and birth) of a thrush

When life around me has the gall to move forward

seemingly uncaring, I gather twigs, leaves, and

A fistful of Spring’s great gifts, violets, to lay atop and beneath

Yesterday’s soft, downy body of bird – baby baby baby bird –

Whose only song was that of its new-formed beak

Pecking out a cry toward Mother’s out of reach food.

In such unbearable times as these

I turn less to God and more to Mary Oliver.

In The Poet With His Face in His Hands, she tells me

And anyone else who cares this much

“When your pretty mouth won’t hold it in . . .”

Go and stand behind the waterfall where

“You can roar all you want . . . where you can

Drip with despair all afternoon and still,

On a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

By the passing foil of the water, the thrush,

Puffing out its spotted breast, will sing of the perfect,

stone-hard beauty of everything.”

© Amy Pierce and In Spiritual Wonder, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Amy Pierce and In Spiritual Wonder with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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