October rain falls with an icy overture
summoning bright leaves
from branches
to stony disintegration
beneath tire and sole.
Eyes fix upon ground which
once were held high.
The weary world wonders
at this last ripple of laughter
gently yielding
to beauty’s rustling murmur.
Though death stands nigh
ankles are blanketed with light.

A response to "Wild Geese"

I am not able to be good, anyway.
So, I think I may have to walk on my knees
for a hundred miles through the desert,
repenting
(not because I warrant or am
capable of extraordinary suffering)
but because I am called after One
who sought my self-bent despair to relieve.
Whose Love compelled him
to walk a hundred miles through the desert
through the wilderness of fallen
faithless humanity to Calvary,
where the soft animal of his body
was nailed to a tree.

All because he loved what he loved!
the world.
And we loved what we loved,
darkness.

Meanwhile the world goes on.
Unfeeling, unseeing,
As God draws near
having paid the desert's wearisome toll
of reconciling.
So when I hear the wild geese cry – harsh and exciting –
and the beauty of created things encloses about me,
I will listen, allow my imagination to be held and borne
upon the wind of eternal invitation.

Do you think lightly of the riches of His kindness
and tolerance and patience, not knowing
that the kindness of God leads you to repentance?
Romans 2:4

Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours,
And I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving
Across the landscapes
Over the prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear blue air,
Are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls to you like the wild geese
Harsh and exciting –
Over and over announcing your place in the family of things.