Weekly Scribblings # 52 Erasure poem

 

isn't it clear

the black path i walk

 thinking

if the doors of my heart ever close

i am as good as dead

every morning so far i'm, alive

now break the darkness

and burst up into the sky

 

 

 

 

Landscape by Mary Oliver

 

Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.