Blue Iris By Mary Oliver Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I? Can’t fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk. Well, I think, I can read books. ”What’s that you’re doing?” the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past. I close the book. Well, I can write down words, like these, softly. “What’s that you’re doing?” whispers the wind, pausing in a heap just outside the window. Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face. It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know. “Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distillation of blue iris. And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 18:04:20 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015