Thank you Mary Oliver

My Work is Loving the World

Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird –
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young and still not half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.


the link link of the bobolink

…Thoreau’s Journal: 15-July-1854

Rained still in forenoon; now cloudy. Fields comparatively deserted today and yesterday. Hay stands cocked in them on all sides. Some, being shorn, are clear for the walker. It is but a short time that he has to dodge the haymakers. This cooler, still, cloudy weather after the rain is very autumnal and restorative to our spirits. The robin sings still, but the goldfinch twitters over oftener, and I hear the link link of the bobolink (one perfect strain!), and the crickets creak more as in the fall. All these sounds dispose our mind to serenity. Perhaps the mosquitoes are most troublesome such days in the woods, if it is warm enough. We seem to be passing, or to have passed, a dividing line between spring and autumn, and begin to descend the long slope toward winter. On the shady side of the hill I go along Hubbard’s walls toward the bathing-place, stepping high to keep my feet as dry as may be. All is stillness in the fields. The calamint (Pyenanthemum muticum), standing by the wall with its hoary upper leaves, full of light even this cloudy day and reminding of the fragrance which I know so well, is an agreeable sight. I need not smell it; it is balm to my mind to remember its fragrance.

How I Lost A Hobblebush or Knowing Where You Are

How I Lost A Hobblebush or Knowing Where You Are

If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.
E. O. Wilson

A couple of weeks ago I spotted a Hobblebush on the side of the Bog Road on the back end of my town. I have lived here over thirty years and mostly I am used to seeing old washing machines and tv sets tossed along the edges of the local woods. Eventually over the years I let the woods go by in a blur on my way to the bog. But it turns out the woods changed over time as woods tend to do. I just hadn’t noticed. The remains of the same very ancient tube tv are still there in the same ditch but nature has all but engulfed it.

One day on our way back from our regular visits to the bog to see what we could see, I single outstanding shrub in full bloom. Wham. I yelled out to my unsuspecting husband — STOP. And then — BACK UP. As I leapt out of the car — I hear a grumbling sigh behind me but I was on a mission, camera in hand. It was indeed a Hobblebush .

I am in love with what I find on the edges, the transition zones, the ecotones. I even remember how long ago I spotted the old tv in the roadside ditch. Just recently my husband, while mowing, spotted a patch of Jack In The Pulpit hidden under an old battered Spruce. When he told me I did not believe him. That Spruce had gotten strangled by porcelainberry. I was responsible for the invasion. I had planted the pretty exotic Southern vine thinking it would die back hard and never spread. And yet it still persists on the edges of the yard. Once we cut out the pernicious invader from the underbelly of the old Spruce, Several years later a fairly generous patch of Jack In The Pulpit has appeared. My new take on gardening is not gardening but rather watching. i.e. pull out the bad mistakes and see what happens. Well —Jack In The Pulpit happened.

Back to the Hobblebush – I was so excited to spot it. A couple of days after the first sighting we went back to nail down the location. On first sweep I could not spot it. Then Bill created a plan. I checked the photos for time stamp and calculated the spot was about 3 minutes going 20 miles an hour from the edge of the bog where I had been photographing a basking turtle. No hobblebush. We changed our speed. We changed our route. The bush was not to be found. It had vanished.

By now, two weeks later, the blooms are long gone and if that bush is there, it has now blended back into the surrounding woods. I am still perplexed and a little sad. After years of seeing only abandoned refrigerators and deer carcasses — finally a beautiful Hobblebush, and now it is gone. But — from now on I will look at these woods with renewed interest and respect. I want to be paying attention to spot the next undervalued native beauty.


by Marie Howe

(after Stephen Hawking)

Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity
we once were?

so compact nobody
needed a bed, or food or money —

nobody hiding in the school bathroom
or home alone

pulling open the drawer
where the pills are kept.

For every atom belonging to me as good
Belongs to you.

There was no   Nature.    No
them.   No tests
o determine if the elephant
grieves her calf    or if

the coral reef feels pain.    Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;

would that we could wake up   to what we were
— when we were ocean    and before that

to when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was
liquid and stars were space and space was not

at all — nothing

before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.

Can molecules recall it?
what once was?    before anything happened?

No I, no We, no one. No was
No verb      no noun
only a tiny tiny dot brimming with

is is is is is

All   everything   home


Every Spring,
even at ten,
he turns into a wild animal,
stalking, crouching taut,
staring unwavering into the twilight,
hunting the hidden prey where I see only shadows.

Sometimes he remains motionless for longer than I have patience.
He hardly ever pounces
and when he does,
it is not until the perceived prey has long gone off into the night.

Then he looks around cautiously,  a little confused.
Standing, he meanders off
away from the porch light as if it never happened.

Like me he has a reawakening just before
the grass begins to green and the buds swell.
It is then that we go on high alert.
Leaping again to life
after many months of barely registering the day.

Earth 2018

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

—Wendell Berry


Seamus Heaney

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart

Of the townland; green and heavy headed

Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.

Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.

Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles

Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.

There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,

But best of all was the warm thick slobber

Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water

In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring

I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied

Specks to range on window-sills at home,

On shelves at school, and wait and watch until

The fattening dots burst into nimble-

Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how

The daddy frog was called a bullfrog

And how he croaked and how the mammy frog

Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was

Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too

For they were yellow in the sun and brown

In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank

With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs

Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges

To a coarse croaking that I had not heard

Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.

Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked

On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:

The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat

Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.

I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings

Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew

That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.