Oxygen
Everything needs it: bone,
muscles, and even,
while it calls the earth its home, the soul.
So the merciful, noisy machine
while it calls the earth its home, the soul.
So the merciful, noisy machine
stands in our house working
away in its
lung-like voice. I hear it as I kneel
before the fire, stirring with a
lung-like voice. I hear it as I kneel
before the fire, stirring with a
stick of iron, letting the
logs
lie more loosely. You, in the upstairs room,
are in your usual position, leaning on your
lie more loosely. You, in the upstairs room,
are in your usual position, leaning on your
right shoulder which
aches
all day. You are breathing
patiently; it is a
all day. You are breathing
patiently; it is a
beautiful sound. It
is
your life, which is so close
to my own that I would not know
your life, which is so close
to my own that I would not know
where to drop the knife
of
separation. And what does this have to do
with love, except
separation. And what does this have to do
with love, except
everything? Now the
fire rises
and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red
roses of flame. Then it settles
and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red
roses of flame. Then it settles
to quietude, or maybe
gratitude, as it feeds
as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift:
our purest, sweet necessity: the air.
as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift:
our purest, sweet necessity: the air.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(New and Selected Poems, Volume
Two)
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