For Mary Oliver



For Mary Oliver


The alder twig skidded to a stop

on a hoar frosted slope

wearing winter bird cones — 

ruffled, feather thick —


a delivery just as surprising 

and indelible 

as a sudden flash of wings


and as untamed 

as the wind that brought it here,

a feathered forest

in a twig.


Now its curious shadows


the glittered meadow

to reveal the world in glimpses


a bright multitude of beginnings 


in every ending.

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