We will meet in the dark

Poetry

Mary Oliver
White-Eyes

In winter
   all the singing is in
         the tops of the trees
            where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
   shoves and pushes
         among the branches.
            Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
   but he’s restless—
         he has an idea,
            and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
   as long as he stays awake.
         But his big, round music, after all,
            is too breathy to last.

So, it’s over.
   In the pine-crown
         he makes his nest,
            he’s done all he can.

I don’t know the name of this bird,
   I only imagine his glittering beak
         tucked in a white wing
            while the clouds—

which he has summoned
   from the north—
         which he has taught
            to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
   into the world below
         like stars, or the feathers
               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
   that is asleep now, and silent—
         that has turned itself
            into snow.

Link to playlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6oU5ye3TReHCq2l6Uofzsd?si=d4a9e2769ff048da

Offer into the shared cauldron below ... ✨