A poem for Saturday

Saturday, 8 February 2014

little flowers

The Moths by Mary Oliver

There’s a kind of white moth, I don’t know
what kind, that glimmers
by mid-May
in the forest, just
as the pink moccasin flowers
are rising.

If you notice anything,
it leads you to notice
and more.

And anyway
I was so full of energy.
I was always running around, looking
at this and that.

If I stopped
the pain
was unbearable.

If I stopped and thought, maybe
the world
can’t be saved,
the pain
was unbearable.

Finally, I had noticed enough.
All around me in the forest
the white moths floated.

How long do they live, fluttering
in and out of the shadows?

You aren’t much, I said
one day to my reflection
in a green pond,
and grinned.

The wings of the moths catch the sunlight
and burn
so brightly.

At night, sometimes,
they slip between the pink lobes
of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn,
in those dark halls of honey.


Rambling Tart said...

I started reading poetry again last week and it has been luscious. :-) I love this poem, so much, and shall print it out and save it. :-)

Hila said...

That's wonderful Krista, I find poetry so comforting.

rooth said...

This is beautiful. I do run around and staying still is almost painful. I need to find the white moths in my life

Denise | Chez Danisse said...

Thanks, Hila.

Hila said...

Glad you enjoyed it, Rooth and Denise.