The Swan (blessing continued)

Christiane, a French woman who was at our retreat, introduced to us the second poem posted below because it seemed to embody the idea of blessing--and all the overtones involved in being open to receiving it when it finally does come. So I came home and when I was looking for it stumbled upon another poem by Mary Oliver also by the same title. (She is quickly becoming a favorite of mine. I'm hoping my husband will get me her book "Winter Hours" for Christmas. Suttle, heh?) The two together seem to say so much about what God is teaching me. And SO beautifully at that. Then, I thought I remembered Rodger having taken some pictures of swans that were extraordinary. So I asked if I could borrow them. I must say I'm quite pleased with the combination, and I hope you are truly blessed by it.

The Swan

by Mary Oliver

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?

Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -

An armful of white blossoms,

A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned

into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,

Biting the air with its black beak?

Did you hear it, fluting and whistling

A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall

Knifing down the black ledges?

And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -

A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet

Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?

And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?

And have you changed your life?

The Swan

also by Mary Oliver

Across the wide waters

Something comes floating-a slim

and delicate ship filled with white flowers and it moves

on its miraculous muscles as though time didn’t exist

as though bringing such gifts to the dry shore was a happiness

almost beyond bearing.

And now it turns its dark eyes, it rearranges the clouds of its wings,

it trails an elaborate webbed foot, the color of charcoal.

Soon it will be here.

Oh what shall I do when the poppy-colored beak rests in my hand?

Said Ms. Blake of the Poet:

I miss my husband’s company—he is so often in paradise.

Of course! The path to heaven doesn’t lie down in flat miles.

Its in the imagination with which you perceive this world,

and the gestures with which you honor it.

Oh what will I do, what will I say, when those white wings touch the shore?

Photos by Rodger Pickett