Mary Oliver

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but a doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

From Thirst
©Mary Oliver
Beacon Press2006

poems for spring or mother’s day or anytime at all

Relentless Light, my poetry chapbook, made its debut last Saturday. www.finishinglinepress.com
Bone Structure
 
The shape of bones beneath the skin,
white winged clavicle, curve
of metatarsal arch, an alabaster span,
the fine intrigue of hands,
twenty-seven bones, splayed
as the sycamore in winter
against a soft edged sky,
visible as the swell a finger traces
across the apple of a cheek, then lingers
down along the line [...]