Mary Oliver

20140521-063304.jpg

I found this this morning. Mary Oliver poem. At this very moment I’m not sure I’ve ever loved a poem more.

When Death Comes
By Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited the world.

This Saturday marks a year since my friend died. Today I look out my bedroom window and the crab apple is nearly ready to burst into bloom. These days I battle with silence versus telling in a world where a million radios are on all of the time all tuned to our own private stations. I guess it’s a sign that I’m getting old — when technology seems both miraculous and threatening.

A poem for you this morning. It isn’t an easy one but it’s beautiful.

Xoxo

P