Tag Archives: mary oliver poem


“With luck, it might even snow for us.”

                                 Haruki Murakami,


Yes, luck prevailed. Dull, dirty, grey  autumn’s finale has come. No more naked branches, dried moldy leaves and melancholy  grass, we are  now covered in a fresh soft, winter sheet that feels like flannelette. Nature has covered the decay in sparkle and ice, lulling us with beauty before our winter sleep. Winter is exciting, everything has changed.


The dogs loved the snow. Grommet played so much that his legs were covered in snowballs. He looked like some had sewn ruffles on his legs. He also knows what to do when you have played hard in the snow. You find a nice warm bed to dry off in.


The barn was not impressed. No one wanted to come out. This is Lacey and Tilly’s first winter and snow fall. Lacey didn’t leave her nesting box all day.


Aflac always game for anything wandered down the path I shovelled to eat the last tomato of the season. It was what was left from our 200 pounds of home-grown bounty.








As is our nature, we relish in the new season only to grow tired of it and wish for what comes after. So for today we will enjoy the snow and sparkle. Not sure how we will feel when its -30 and not -3.


 Mary Oliver

In winter
    all the singing is in
         the tops of the trees
             where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
    shoves and pushes
         among the branches.
             Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
    but he’s restless—
         he has an idea,
             and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
    as long as he stays awake.
         But his big, round music, after all,
             is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
    In the pine-crown
         he makes his nest,
             he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
    I only imagine his glittering beak
         tucked in a white wing
             while the clouds—
which he has summoned
    from the north—
         which he has taught
             to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
    into the world below
         like stars, or the feathers
               of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
    that is asleep now, and silent—
         that has turned itself
             into snow.