Thursday, July 22, 2010

859. At Great Pond - Mary Oliver


 At Great Pond

the sun, rising,

scrapes his orange breast

on the thick pines,

and down tumble

a few orange feathers into

the dark water.

On the far shore

a white bird is standing

like a white candle —

or a man, in the distance,

in the clasp of some meditation —

while all around me the lilies

are breaking open again

from the black cave

of the night.

Later, I will consider

what I have seen —

what it could signify —

what words of adoration I might

make of it, and to do this

I will go indoors to my desk—

I will sit in my chair —

I will look back

into the lost morning

in which I am moving, now,

like a swimmer,

so smoothly,

so peacefully,

I am almost the lily —

almost the bird vanishing over the water

on its sleeves of night.