Another poem, and a promise

This poem has really spoken to me lately. My sister Nina really likes Mary Oliver, so I was reading my book of hers recently and I've really enjoyed it. Blue Iris, the book, is about nature mostly, and the speaker's role in it. This is the title poem that I just can't get enough of.

Blue Iris

Now that I'm 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 you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its 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.


Soon to come, pictures of my new Christmas tree!!

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