I am sitting here hurting from the loss of Zeus so I go to my poetry books to search for some balm for my aching heart. Nobody puts thoughts and feelings into words like Mary Oliver. Ahhhh, that feels better.
Her Graveby Mary Oliver
She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile-----
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming
perfect arch of her neck.
It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but, anyway, it began to rain
slowly.
Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.
Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.
My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.
Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.
A dog lives fifteen years, if you're lucky.
Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?
A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.
Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?
A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know
almost nothing.
Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?
She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait for me, or be somewhere.
Now she is buried under the pines.
Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.
Through the trees is the sound of the wind, palavering
The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?
How strong was her dark body!
How apt is her grave place.
How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.
Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.
Auntie Althegal made Jboy this quilt. Wow! You did a great job Auntie A!
Of course if Auntie Althegal makes something you are sure to have a signature bat or two in there.
Smudge is sharing a quiet minute or two with Amma until she gets used to the whirlwind of activity that always breezes into the house when the Aunties visit.
Oh my, the Aunties brought Smudge a Tonka Garbage truck and she thought that was pretty grand.
Amma gave Smudge some help to open the box, and Jboy came to and check out what was going on. He quite liked the truck too, and gave sister a hand exploring all the moving parts.
If you remember this post you will know why they choose a garbage truck for Smudge. She is still fascinated by them and Mommy even buys the garbage men a little Christmas present to say thank-you for making an extra-long stop in front of their house to put the truck through it paces for Smudge.
