Thursday, October 4, 2012


Like large dark
butterflies they sweep over
the glades looking
for death,
to eat it,
to make it vanish,
to make of it the miracle:
resurrection. No one
knows how many
they are who daily
minister so to the grassy
miles, no one
counts how many bodies
they discover
and descend to, demonstrating
each time the earth's
appetite, the unending
waterfalls of change.
No one,
wants to ponder it,
how it will be
to feel the blood cool,
shapeliness dissolve.
Locked into
the blaze of our own bodies
we watch them
wheeling and drifting, we
honor them and we
loathe them,
however wise the doctrine,
however magnificent the cycles,
however ultimately sweet
the huddle of death to fuel
those powerful wings.

Mary Oliver

 Image by Yuri Bittar.


Pam Morris said...

I REALLY like this lady's poetry. wow.

Caffeinated Joe said...

Well done!

girl6 said...


i think my Favorite part is the comparing of vultures to butterflies---now that is some Hardcore Awesomeness right there...

& i guess the One thing i respect the most about vultures is---they at least wait until death before picking (your) bones dry...

Wikkedmoon said...

Mary Oliver is my favorite poet. Really digging that you are posting some of her stuff.