Thinking of Mary Oliver and e-bird, two kindred spirits.
Possibility
This morning two doves are preening
On a low limb of the pine just outside
My door, close enough to touch them,
So absorbed they are with their ritual
Cleansing and smoothing of feathers,
Each and each other's, not singing
But sighing, or so it seems, content.
One feather falls, though falls is not
The right word for something so slow
And serene, to the needled ground,
And I wonder if they know I will wait
And pick it up, carry it home to the
Others of its kind in a small dish of
Pine needles and two pale white eggs
Yesterday's storm dropped, but gently,
Beneath another pine from a nest
I cannot reach. Having touched them,
The eggs become mine to care for,
Warming under a lamp and a flock
Of gathered feathers . . . like making
A poem out of nothing but possibility.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2012-04-17 at 18:23
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