on my mind, for the last week

and today: the poet has died.

october

by mary oliver

1

there's this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.

a longing wells up in its throat

like a blossom

as it breathes slowly.

what does the world 

mean to you if you can't trust it

to go on shining when you're

not there? and there's 

a tree, long-fallen; once 

the bees flew to it, like a procession

of messengers, and filled it

with honey.

2

i said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the 

     green pine tree:

little dazzler,

little song,

little mouthful.

3

the shape climbs up out of the curled grass. it

grunts into view. there is no measure

for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes ---

there is no telling

the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns

and yawns.

                      near the fallen tree

something -- a leaf snapped loose

from the branch and fluttering down -- tries to pull me

into its trap of attention.

4

it pulls me

into its trap of attention.

and when i turn again, the bear is gone.

5

look, hasn't my body already felt

like the body of a flower?

6

look, i want to love this world

as though it's the last chance i'm ever going to get

to be alive

and know it.

7

sometimes in late summer i won't touch anything, not

the flowers, not the blackberries

brimming in the thickets; i won't drink

from the pond; i won't name the birds or the trees;

i won't whisper my own name.

                                              one morning

the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,

and didn't see me -- and i thought:

so this is the world.

i'm not in it.

it is beautiful.