Now that I am free to be myself, who am I?
Can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think I can read books,
"What's that you're doing?"
the green headed fly shouts as it buzzes past,
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly,
"What's that your doing?" whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say back to it staring, silver face,.
It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.
"Doesn't it? says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
Blue Iris by Mary Oliver
A chilly day here by the woods
a chill that seems to penetrate my body.
reminding me that Winter is not far away.
Not much accomplished
mind blank a lot of the day.
In the afternoon I pick up my Mary Oliver books
poem after poem is underlined
and little papers sticking out of the pages
pointing to poems that speak to my heart.
As I read
this one is touched with sadness
seems I relate to much on these written pages.
I am not really sad
just not pleased
that I never arrived, never accomplished
and never understood
so much I have wanted in these last years
and I guess
I have expected too much of myself.
Peace and answers to some questions
just seemed to never arrive
guess I know the answer
really quite simple
but why do I continue to question
and not accept
because much in my life I did my way
and a lot I had no control over.
But so grateful for what has transpired over this lifetime
I longed for so much more,
probably more then most people
and realize I am different from most
thinking too deeply
even though I try to live in the moment.
So at this moment
I will stop typing
and go and pet Callie
she is always the same,
always welcomes me,
expects so little.
On a lighter note
I brought in the hummingbird feeders
washed and put them away until next Spring.
Have not seen them for 5 days at this time
and frost due in the morning...