The world needs poets, especially now, she said.
It felt like a call.
I am gobbling up poems
stretching cheek muscles
of comic women.
There is truth in them thar hills,
I am learning new words.
They are my river stones that
wink at me beneath the translucent waves.
Take me home and I will be your morning muse.
A flight of steps down to a river
or over a mountain pass.
This morning I sat in America.
This morning I wrote about uncertainty.
This morning I read a poem.
This morning I share this poem with you.
It felt meet and right so to do.
by Mary Oliver
Early in the morning we crossed the ghat,
where fires were still smoldering,
and gazed, with our Western minds, into the
A woman was standing in the river up to her
she was lifting handfuls of water and spilling it
over her body, slowly and many times,
as if until there came some moment
of inner satisfaction between her own life and
Then she dipped a vessel she had brought with
and carried it filled with water back across the
no doubt to refresh some shrine near where she
for this is the holy city of Shiva, maker
of the world, and this is his river.
I can't say much more, except that it all happened
in silence and peaceful simplicity, and something
like the bliss of certainty and a life lived
in accordance with that certainty.
I must remember this, I thought, as we fly back
Pray God I remember this.
Deb Grant, resilient child of God, creative tinker of paper, ink, wood, shiny things, paint and words. The human amusement of a parrot and a dog.
Writer, poet, artist, human, citizen, learner, scruffy, goof.
Word Food by Deb is randomly published. More than weekly, less than daily at the following media sites: