Poetry Monday: White Owl Flies

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.

 --Mary Oliver 

 Years ago my sister Kathy let it be known that she was fascinated by owls. So for years afterwards, anyone who couldn’t think of another gift to get her, got her something with an owl theme. I thought maybe that was long over, but coincidentally or not, on my last birthday she got me a copy of Mary Oliver’s Owls and Other Fantasies, poems and essays. This is one of the poems from that book, which I dedicate right back to her, for her birthday this week. Happy birthday.