Flora & Fauna – Page 30

Mary Oliver, “White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field”

Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

by Mary Oliver

After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing dear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Robert Frost

The Guardians

Five years have gone by since I’ve come to this place. This old house on the Quaboag River. When first I looked at the house, it was to the yard I went to be with the green of May. I hesitated until October and despite the crimp of a week-long migraine, rose up and agreed to come here. I could only try.

There was a presence when I first moved in that took to knocking things around. When the Indian Corn ornament “fell” and rolled all over the floor, I yelled and we’ve been at peace ever since. I blessed this house by smoke of sage and sprinkle of sea water. Yes, yes, must do again as the moon when ducks fly has come. Storms will come. They always do.

What has my fascination here are the guardians. A line of maple trees marks the border of the property. The tall trees that give the sensation of an allee, which gives birth to the name Tranquility Vale at times. Doesn’t every place want naming? It is a tranquil place and it is my home. Strange to think I’ve been in one place for this long. The urge to roam comes and goes, especially when the birds flock for the journey south. Why am I left behind again! My bones don’t forget and curl up in distaste of winter to come.

The guardians carry what I don’t know. Who was here? Did you see the house built? What do you know? The guardians root deep in the sandy soil. I wonder if the roots reach the river. The leaves are coming off fast. The carpet of yellow, orange and rust. The fuzzy Woolly Bear caterpillars are about. The woodpeckers have come out of the forest to the suet cake already. The geese fly over in the V calling on the way as they follow the Libra Sun.

Sometimes I see the door at the hollow of the tree. I see it only at twilight time and pondered the myth of wee folk. Be there hobbits about? These trees, they stand up and reach for the sky.

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We want the stars in the warm days, we want the earth in the month when leaves fall. In the twilight time of year, we talk. Again we go to sleep, we go to earth for rest, finally, simply rest, we go to our home, our comfort our joy. We are old. We were here before the creatures. We grow tall. We are more. We love sun. We feel wind as a song. We never die. We don’t see you at all. I need nothing but where I am and what I am. I carry nothing. I ask nothing. You cannot imagine my being. To sway with the earth, to feel her roll. I stand so still to feel her roll. Can you stand so still? Can you feel the river under your feet? I can stand by this forever. We keep the way. We are guardians.

Written by Frances Wychorski

@FrancesAnnWy