The Fireplace – a poem

The Fireplace
What is the passage of time but
another turn,
another rotation of the roasting spit?
When the seasons cycle what is it
you learn,
after yearning again at the end that
something beyond the burn - dizzy and slow -
would transcend
and hold, just for a moment or so,
this ticking, sickening circle. Still, what do we know?
Time begins and ends and
begins again. So
the timeless only touches in flares of grace -
lightly, but not to be taken so.  Until
the Timeless raises us to his face
more than likely, we will turn on and on in this roasting fireplace. 
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Gorgeous Things: An Introduction

What Gorgeous Thing by Mary Oliver

I do not know what gorgeous thing
the bluebird keeps saying,
his voice easing out of his throat,
beak, body into the pink air
of the early morning. I like it
whatever it is. Sometimes
it seems the only thing in the world
that is without dark thoughts.
Sometimes it seems the only thing
in the world that is without
questions that can’t and probably
never will be answered, the
only thing that is entirely content
with the pink, then clear white
morning and, gratefully, says so.

Birds – especially bluebirds – enchant me.  But they have not always done so. 

As a young girl, I felt a vague appreciation for the morning songs of winged creatures and their flashes of color across the sky, but I never truly allowed myself to marvel at birds.  I never stopped to listen to their tunes.  I never longed to analyze and admire their complex coats and colors.  

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