Pocket Poem #7: August 12, 1995

For my love.

We thought the earth
remembered us, she
took us back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. We slept
as never before, stones
on the riverbed, nothing
between us and the white fire of the stars
but our thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
We heard the small kingdoms breathing
around us, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
We rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
We had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

-Mary Oliver (sort of)

2 thoughts on “Pocket Poem #7: August 12, 1995”

    1. Oh my dearest one! This morning I read this poem, watching the birds and wildlife bless the land around me. Thinking of you. Thinking of us. And then, I open my mail and see you have left this same poem, this lovely tribute to me/us.
      JILYA my Love, JILYA

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