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| Photo by Richard Blake Verdoorn |
The Waterfall
for May Swenson
by Mary Oliver
For all they said,
I could not see the waterfall
until I came and saw the water falling,
its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down,
while something howled like thunder,
over the rocks,
all day and all night –
unspooling
like ribbons made of snow,
or god’s white hair.
At any distance
it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple
preponderance –
a fall of flowers – and truly it seemed
surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and
light-hearted to be
flying at last.
Gravity is a fact everybody
knows about.
It is always underfoot,
like a summons,
gravel-backed and mossy,
in every beetled basin –
and imagination –
that striver,
that third eye –
can do a lot but
hardly everything. The white, scrolled
wings of the tumbling water
I never could have
imagined. And maybe there will be,
after all,
some slack and perfectly balanced
blind and rough peace, finally,
in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that
falling?
For all they said,
I could not see the waterfall
until I came and saw the water falling,
its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down,
while something howled like thunder,
over the rocks,
all day and all night –
unspooling
like ribbons made of snow,
or god’s white hair.
At any distance
it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple
preponderance –
a fall of flowers – and truly it seemed
surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and
light-hearted to be
flying at last.
Gravity is a fact everybody
knows about.
It is always underfoot,
like a summons,
gravel-backed and mossy,
in every beetled basin –
and imagination –
that striver,
that third eye –
can do a lot but
hardly everything. The white, scrolled
wings of the tumbling water
I never could have
imagined. And maybe there will be,
after all,
some slack and perfectly balanced
blind and rough peace, finally,
in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that
falling?
Michelle hosts the Poetry Friday Round up at Today's Little Ditty.
Posts
"its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down" —isn't that fantastic! Thanks for sharing Mary Oliver today, Dori.
ReplyDeleteWhat a way to view a waterfall! I love the ending:
ReplyDelete"And maybe there will be,
after all,
some slack and perfectly balanced
blind and rough peace, finally,
... after all that
falling?
Doraine.....I was here last night....literally fell asleep (long week) in the beautiful fall of words in this poem. This piece is exquisite. I'm drawn to the ending. After all the beautiful description, how does a poet "dismount" from the piece. I think Oliver does this perfectly in the deep green motionless pools.
ReplyDeleteJust a gorgeous bit of beauty. Thank you for sharing this.
What an inspiring poem. Makes me want to hike into the woods at once, to find her discarded words, left lying like breadcrumbs beside the path.
ReplyDeleteAs always, Mary Oliver's work humbles and moves me. This is simply beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteWhat an amazing poem. Such eloquence - and complete and perfect disregard for line and stanza breaks. It sweeps you along like a current over a waterfall.
ReplyDelete