a thousand moons

Golden moonlight  Jan 2014

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

Mary Oliver

HPIM0832
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

moment

wait a moment
take a breath
wait a moment
see this moment as the entrance into your future
a point in time

a moment
hold this moment in your hand
fill it with silence, with calm,
all is calm, all is bright
a point in time

make a bright entrance into your future
in silence, in calm
this moment
fill it with breath
and move forward

First Week of Advent

Peace

wandering angels congregate
amongst the wind tossed cedars
filling the branches with wings and song
gloria gloria
peace be with you this day

Prince of Peace, a name we reach out to,
we call to, yearning for peace in our turbulent times
our turbulent minds
gloria gloria
peace be with you this day

peace be with you this day

First Sunday of Advent

paper cranes

The path folds into itself,
an origami of leaf mold and gravel.
Its edges drift into stiff hedges of
deep dried grass,
shifting ever so slightly in the spring breeze-
fluttering like paper,
paper cranes
that fold their wings
and unfurl to fly.

Someone once folded a thousand cranes,
a symbol of peace or redemption or grace,
I forget which.
These cranes took flight
and flew with ibis and stork,
heron and egret,
until the fragile paper wings drifted slowly,
silently
into the flame,
consumed.

All that was left
was an origami of ash
for me to shovel into the garden
and work into the soil
to feed the roots
and nourish our souls,
with peace or redemption
or grace.

*** For Hiroshima Day of Remembrance, a poem written several years ago.