The Kingfisher

     I thank John C.  for forwarding me this exquisite poem by one of my favorite poets–Mary Oliver.  I think this poem is definitely worth several readings.–April Moore

 

The Kingfisher
 
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
 
like a blue flower, in his beak
 
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
 
the prettiest world–so long as you don’t mind
 
a little dying, how could there be a day in your
 
whole life
 
that doesn’t have its splash of happiness?
 
There are more fish than there are leaves
 
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
 
wasn’t born to think about it, or anything else.
 
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the
 
water
 
remains water–hunger is the only story
 
he has ever heard in his life that he could
 
believe.
 
I don’t say he’s right. Neither
 
do I say he’s wrong. Religiously he swallows the
 
silver leaf
 
with its broken red river, and with a rough and
 
easy cry
 
I couldn’t rouse out of my thoughtful body
 
if my life depended on it, he swings back
 
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
 
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.
 
Mary Oliver
  

  

3 Responses to “The Kingfisher”

  1. Jude Pardee Says:

    Mary Oliver has many wonderful poems about nature. I printed up one for Daniel when he left here last week…

  2. Tanya Says:

    That was beautiful, April. Thank you. The picture was also perfect.

  3. Joan Brundage Says:

    How beautiful–both the poem and photo. Thanks, April.

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