Beauty, by Mary Oliver (and misdirected bloggers)

I accidentally attract a lot of fashion bloggers to my site, because I often write about nature, find it incredibly beautiful, and tag the post with “beauty”; voila! fashion bloggers arrive magically like butterflies.  And out of pity or sympathy, or something, they often like my posts!  If you’re one such fashion blogger, I hope you don’t mind occasionally being misdirected to posts about nature or poetry written by a blogger who regularly wears two plaid shirts that do not match each other, and one of which smells like wood smoke, tractor grease, bug spray, and sweat and has three sizable holes in it.

Beauty

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 cup I will ever enter.

–  Mary Oliver

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