Across the wide waters
something comes
floating - a slim
and delicate
ship, filled
with white flowers--
and it moves
on its miraculous muscles
as though time didn't exist,
as though bringing such gifts
to the dry shore
was a happiness
almost beyond bearing.
And now it turns its dark eyes,
it rearranges
the clouds of its wings,
it trails
an elaborate webbed foot,
the color of charcoal.
Soon it will be here.
Oh what shall I do
when that poppy-colored beak
rests in my hand?
Said Mrs. Blake of the poet:
I miss my husband's company
he is so often
in paradise
Of course the path to heaven
doesn't lie down in flat miles.
It's in the imagination
with which you percieve
the world
and the gestures
with which you honor it
Oh, what will I do, what will I say, when those
white wings
touch the shore?
Mary Oliver
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