Poem: Beauty by Mary Oliver

Beauty by Mary Oliver

 

When the owl
on her plush and soundless wings
rises
from the black waves

of the oak leaves,
or floats
out of the needles
of the pines

that are moaning,
that are tossing,
I think:
o she is beautiful

with her eyes
like burning moons,
with her feet
like twisted braids

of old gold
flexing and curling –
and I am glad to see her –
some wild loyalty has me

to the root of the heart –
even when she ruffles down
into the field

and jabs like a mad thing

and it's hopeless,
it's also wonderful,
so I thank
whatever made her –

this beast of a bird
with her thick breast
and her shimmering wings –
whose nest, in the dark trees,

is trimmed with screams and bones –
whose beak
is the most terrible cupI will ever enter.