“…spinning and tossing the white ribbons of their songs into the air. I had nothing better to do
than listen. I mean this seriously.” – Mary Oliver, Mockingbirds
Those were the days I slept in.
Past when the day had swept in
and grinned. But then
I found what had commenced and gone,
past retrieval, past the dawn.
The many-gathering things had fled
and whispered hymns to my ears were dead.
The image of her sitting sits
in my bones and sitting yet–
the woman from which I came
at door of dawn and garden met.
not doing, but the resting in
the being with beings best
at day break bring their
first dew before warmth fell in
the inchèd crawl of light begins
the lavender, approaching thin
tumbled through distant cloud, now became
persimmon, pink, and rose-filled same
among the marvels I had missed, she said
amidst the meandered mist, ahead
were many feathered friends in flight
or simply perched to sing the light
ten and five by her own eyes
different types, from land and skies
robin, warbler, cardinal, jay,
hummingbird, thrush, bushbird greys,
common corvid, hawk, and owl,
woodpecker, wren, and water fowl
but one that brought such joy to soul,
the black and orangèd Oriole
She penned them in her notebook list
that in which she keeps them all
gathered in as dreams persist
that might be lost, not seen at all
unless one sits and in sitting gets
the blessings of the morning met
Those were the days I slept
and missed the things that dawn had sent.
But now I greet the light and flight
and fog and song and scent and sight
and have within that image bold
of her awake in morning’s fold
inviting all the sounds that sing,
the rhythms of the bells that ring,
with the light that brings
the many-gathering things.