reflections of a thousand moons
in the eye of the lake
the window of old snow
the mirror of the wind
the spoon of the cloud
in a bucket
a bird bath
a puddle
a polished sliver of petrified wood
on a crystal
a prism
a crackerjack ring
a brass button from an old coat
within a raindrop
a dewdrop
a clear blue sky
the glass of the frame
where your photo smiles
the door where once you stood
the life you lived
for a thousand moons
his voice stronger
still shaking with Parkinsons
with news that he fell
but laughing- only bent, not broken
the bruises left of long life
life now without wife
and home
he talks of people gone
and grandchildren grown
and tells me
‘I’ve not forgotten you’.
its the disappearing
graying of temples
and long standing walls
leaning now on their memories
how quickly they leave
disappearing in
neglect, left to collect dust
on old photographs and letters
they were here once
busy like you, late to work
and laughing, making love
and meals, raising their voices
and children, living
ah, there’s the rub
the dead are left to their own devices
playing bridge and counting clouds
leaving the living to go around
in their immortal mortality
while the ashes cool
and death never takes a holiday
Poetry
By
Mary Oliver
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
from Dream Work by Mary Oliver
published by Atlantic Monthly Press
© Mary Oliver
Its the result of all things left behind,
those by default or determination
without so much as a backward glance
or sorrowful surrender.
Its dusting off the year’s funk,
tossing habits and had-tos
into the bin,
reaching for the latch of tomorrow
and slamming
the
screen
door
shut!
his eyes sparkled
I remember
his spark
his very being sparkled
effervescent sparkles
glitter and shine
laughter that bubbled up
into sparkles of joy
he sparkled
*** my brother, Frank Allen Gresham – oh how he sparkled
I looked it up
the etymology is from Old English
blod – blood – bless
our blessing
deep as bone
life giving
in every fiber
of our being
no matter the situation
we can’t change it
any more than we can live without it
we are blessed
