Cold Poem

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.

by Mary Oliver

Comments (12)

Well thought out, with warmth, love, friendship. Birthdays are the most important day for anyone...only on this particular day, appeared for the first time in the whole universe, a person called Tara(inser your own name, now) , never has been, or will be, another Tara. No other day, or holiday, is as important for a person! Good, good, good! xxElysabeth
Way to go, Alison! ! I raise my coffee mug in toast to Tara, Alison and all the rest in our poetic community.
Wonderful. You've absolutely hit the spot there. Ez X
Sweet, sincere and fond. Lucky Tara.
tenderly felt and written for our surrogate daughter Tara. However, I'm going to add this butch Aussie salutation - 'avagoodone' Love you Tara Kate, Jez
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