Thursday, February 18, 2021

Thursday Poem - Straight Talk From Fox

Listen says fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.

Mary Oliver, from Redbird


Tabor said...

Heard that chilling cry of the fox last night as we drifted off to sleep. Felt sorry as it was in ice and snow.

Mystic Meandering said...

Oooo nice "...I see you...talking *about* God as if he was an idea, instead of the grass, instead of the stars..." We humans have a way of doing that, of conceptualizing "God."
Fox also came by here last night! It was snowing and cold, think he/she was looking for shelter under our Spruce tree, but then left over the back fence...

J.G. said...

Love, love, love this poem. Mary Oliver has an astringent quality, especially when she seems to inhabit other-than-humans. This showcases it beautifully. Straight talk, indeed.