Wednesday, November 10, 2021

The Gift (Mary Oliver)

 Be still, my soul, and steadfast.

Earth and heaven both are still watching

though time is draining from the clock

and your walk, that was confident and quick

has become slow.


So, be slow if you must, but let

the heart still play its true part.

Love still as once you loved, deeply

and without patience. Let God and the world

know you are grateful.

That gift has been given. 

Storage (Mary Oliver)

When I moved from one house to another

there were many things I had no room

for. What does one do? I rented a storage

space. And filled it. Years passed. 

Occasionally I went there and looked in,

but nothing happened, not a single

twinge of the heart. 

As I grew older the things I cared

about grew fewer, but were more 

important, So one day I undid the lock

and called the trash man. He took

everything. 

I felt like the little donkey when

his burden is finally lifted. Things!

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful

fire! More room in your heart for love, 

for the trees! For the birds who own

nothing-the reason they can fly. 

The World I Live In (Mary Oliver)

 I have refused to live

locked in the orderly house of

     reason and proofs.

The world I live in and believe in

is wider than that. And anyway,

     what's wrong with Maybe?


You wouldn't believe what once or

twice I have seen. I'll just

     tell you this:

only if there are angels in your head will you

     ever possibly, see one. 

This Morning (Mary Oliver)

This morning the redbirds's eggs

have hatched and already the chicks

are chirping for food. They don't

know where it's coming from, they

just keep shouting, "More! More!"

As to anything else, they haven't

had a single thought. Their eyes

haven't yet opened, they know nothing

about the sky that's waiting. Or

 the thousands, the millions of trees.

They don't even know they have wings.


And just like that, like a simple 

neighborhood event, a miracle is 

taking place.

Morning Poem (Mary Oliver)

  Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again and fasten the...