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More poems by Mary OliverMary Oliver | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Mary OliverBooks by Mary Oliver


Mary Oliver

Where the path closed
 down and over,
   through the scumbled leaves,
     fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier,
  I kept going.  Finally
    I could not
      save my arms
        from thorns; soon
the mosquitoes
  smelled me, hot
    and wounded, and came
      wheeling and whining.
        And that's how I came
to the edge of the pond:
  black and empty
    except for a spindle
      of bleached reeds
at the far shore
  which, as I looked,
    wrinkled suddenly
      into three egrets - - -
a shower
  of white fire!
    Even half-asleep they had
      such faith in the world
that had made them - - -
  tilting through the water,
    unruffled, sure,
      by the laws
of their faith not logic,
  they opened their wings
    softly and stepped
      over every dark thing.

Added: 2 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 27 Sep 2020 12:26 AM | Viewed: 12880 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3157/ | Viewed on 26 September 2020.
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