MO ( / )


Out of the sump rise the marigolds.
From the rim of the marsh, muslin with mosquitoes,
rises the egret, in his cloud-cloth.
Through the soft rain, like mist, and mica,
the withered acres of moss begin again.

When I have to die, I would like to die
on a day of rain--
long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

And I would like to have whatever little ceremony there might be
take place while the rain is shoveled and shoveled out of the sky,

and anyone who comes must travel, slowly and with thought,
as around the edges of the great swamp.

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Comments (2)

This dear poem was read at the recent memorial service for my dear twin uncles. Just as the minister began to read it the Lord sent a rain shower, not the shovels full but a nice shower. It was a sweet miracle and I have loved this poem since then for that reason. I was not familiar with Mary Oliver and her poems but will certainly look them up and read more. Thanx, cbl
Napoleon's white horse was named Marengo, isn't it stuffed and residing in Paris at the Musée des Invalides? Why do I know these useless things?