Such Singing

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Such Singing...

I often stop in my tracks
to listen to a bird singing
in the forest,
on the river
or at home across the creek
and I let myself enter
the song, melt into
the sunlight,
dissolve into the breeze
and merge
with the tune,
if only for a moment...














I can't believe
I have gone my entire life
without knowing Mary Oliver
Yet it seems as if she has
always been at my side
been my mentor - in absentia
if that is possible

Not that I want to be a poet
although I would love
to weave words well
but rather, I want to take her lead
and learn to completely
lose myself,
to yield,
to lose myself in leaves
in birdsong, in the glinting river
and trembling forest
to lose myself in sun
and wind
and rain,
in life

if only for a moment...















Such Singing in the Wild Branches - Mary Oliver



It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them

were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away








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