The mosquito is so small
it takes almost nothing to ruin it.
Each leaf, the same.
And the black ant, hurrying.
So many lives, so many fortunes!
Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour
before the slug creeps to the feast,
before the pine needles hustle down
under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.
How many, how many, how many
make up a world!
And then I think of that old idea: the singular
and the eternal.
One cup, in which everything is swirled
back to the color of the sea and sky.
Imagine it!
A shining cup, surely!
In the moment in which there is no wind
over your shoulder,
you stare down into it,
and there you are,
your own darling face, your own eyes.
And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,
touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,
and you know what else!
How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,
how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,
even your eyes, even your imagination.

by Mary Oliver

Comments (5)

I like your poem all the way down to the last line.Gees I can'nt belive the telemarketers don't call, I dont even know why I have a message machine thanks Cliff
So much longing and the constant repetition of waiting, waiting, waiting a perpetual reminder of it...
Cheer up Sandra and give me your phone number... H
Silence can be so deafing...and we always long for that call, that one call, from a friend, from long ago, to reasure us, that we are still loved.. Great Poem, Sandra Warm regards, Theodora Onken
The golden silence is broken by a ring, ring, ding a ling, silence is golden With a warmth allan