National Poetry Month Poetry


The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
So many lives, so many fortunes!
Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
before the slug creeps to the feast,
before the pine needles hustle down
under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.
How many, how many, how many
make up a world!
And then I think of that old idea: the singular
and the eternal.
One cup, in which everything is swirled
back to the color of the sea and sky.
Imagine it!
A shining cup, surely!
In the moment in which there is no wind
over your shoulder,
you stare down into it,
and there you are,
your own darling face, your own eyes.
And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
and you know what else!
How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
even your eyes, even your imagination.

-- Mary Oliver
1 Response to "One"

by I'mhep on

thoughts?oh, that,that which goesathwart our facestraces of this and titters of thatsomething abouthow we feel smalllike thoughts, likeants, leaves, oceans, notions ofand of the color of running drainsin settings outside our own habitatthou are a habitatlike blue antsor black oceansor needle windsor pine for your worldsomething crawlingalong with such otherness littlemovements, that defyour swift fleetingonessome connection to naturebut also to the natureof the poemif poem be toldmakes ants of uson a bed of planet sized sandgrain for rainand blood that is drawn up the squitopenonly to find a nice soft pointto enter again