A Poem for the Blue Heron – Mary Oliver

A Poem for the Blue Heron

    1

Now the blue heron
wades the cold ponds
of November.

In the gray light his hunched shoulders
are also gray.

He finds scant food – a few
numbed breathers under
a rind of mud.

When the water he walks in begins
turning to fire, clutching itself to itself
like dark flames, hardening,
he remembers.

Winter.

    2

I do not remember who first said to me, if anyone did:
Not every thing is possible:
some things are impossible,

and took my hand, kindly,
and led me back
from wherever I was.

    3

Toward evening
the heron lifts his long wings
leisurely and rows forward

into flight. He
has made his decision: the south
is swirling with clouds, but somewhere,
fibrous with leaves and swamplands,
is a cave he can hide in
and live.

    4

Now the woods are empty,
the ponds shine like blind eyes,
the wind is shouldering against
the black, wet
bones of the trees.

In a house down the road,
as though I had never seen these things–
leaves, the loose tons of water,
a bird with an eye like a full moon
deciding not to die, after all –
I sit out the long afternoons
drinking and talking;
I gather wood, kindling, paper; I make fire
after fire after fire.

Mary Oliver

Here’s the book link:-

https://www.amazon.co.uk/American-Primitive-Mary-Oliver/dp/0316650048/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1541604202&sr=8-1&keywords=mary+oliver+american+primitive

Palace Gate Counselling Service, Exeter

Counselling Exeter since 1994

This entry was posted in creativity, Disconnection, Mary Oliver, natural world, poetry, sadness & pain, suicide and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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