A Poem for a Thursday #8


Most summers for the last ten years or so we have rented a farmhouse in New York for a week during the summer. (A post I wrote about it is here.)  We love it. It is on 70 acres with fields, woods, a stream, and a pond. It is a week of quiet and nature and peaceful joy. We weren't able to go this year but today's poem reminds me of just how wonderful it is and of the early morning joy of a walk up by the pond. Maybe next year...

At Great Pond
the sun, rising,
scrapes his orange breast
on the thick pines,
and down tumble
a few orange feathers into
the dark water.
On the far shore
a white bird is standing
like a white candle --
or a man, in the distance,
in the clasp of some meditation --
while all around me the lilies
are breaking open again
from the black cave 
of the night.
Later, I will consider
what I have seen --
what it could signify --
what words of adoration I might
make of it, and to do this
I will go indoors to my desk --
I will sit in my chair --
I will look back 
into the lost morning
in which I am moving, now,
like a swimmer,
so smoothly,
so peacefully,
I am almost the lily --
almost the bird vanishing over the water
on its sleeves of night.

At Great Pond
Mary Oliver


2 comments

  1. "the sun, rising,
    scrapes his orange breast
    on the thick pines,
    and down tumble
    a few orange feathers into
    the dark water."

    I am left speechless. Most beautiful.

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    Replies
    1. Isn't that gorgeous? I have been missing a lot by not reading much poetry.

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