A Poem for the Blue Heron – Mary Oliver

Photo by Story Doula

(An Excerpt)

Now the woods are empty,

the ponds shine like blind eyes,

the wind is shouldering against

the black, wet

bones of the trees.

In the 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 sfireq.

-Mary Oliver, American Primitive

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Filed under A Story Doula Kind of Story, Poetry, Qutotable

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