Something
just now
moved through my heart
like the thinnest of blades
as that red-tail pumped 
once with its great wings
and flew above the gray, cracked
rock wall.
It wasn't 
about the bird, it was
something about the way 
stone stays
mute and put, whatever
goes flashing by.
Sometimes,
when I sit like this, quiet,
all the dreams of my blood
and all outrageous divisions of time
seem ready to leave,
to slide out of me.
Then, I imagine, I would never move.
By now
the hawk has flown five miles
at least,
dazzling whoever else has happened 
to look up.
I was dazzled. But that
wasn't the knife.
It was the sheer, dense wall
of blind stone
without a pinch of hope
or a single unfulfilled desire
sponging up and reflecting,
so brilliantly,
as it has for centuries,
the sun's fire.

Added: on December 16th, 2004 at 7:28 PM | Viewed: 7966 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Mary Oliver
Poem: Knife

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