These flowers are called snow drops and they are the first to bloom after winter. Since it has felt like a very long winter for me, I almost jumped for joy when I came across them on my walk today.
I love Mary Oliver. She writes these horrid nature poems which I would normally hate except somehow she manoeuvres around clichés like a poetic wizard. (well, I think so anyways.)
Spring
Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring
down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring
I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue
like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:
how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge
to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else
my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its cities,
with its poems
and its music
and its cities,
it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
all day I think of her –
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.
~ Mary Oliver ~
