• Avian,  Mary Oliver,  meadowlark,  poems

    Alleluia

    Western Meadowlark

    Sixty-seven years, oh Lord, to look at the clouds,
    the trees in deep, moist summer,
    daisies and morning glories
    opening every morning
    their small, ecstatic faces—
    Or maybe I should just say
    how I wish I had a voice
    like the meadowlark’s,
    sweet, clear, and reliably
    slurring all day long
    from the fencepost, or the long grass
    where it lives
    in a tiny but adequate grass hut
    beside the mullein and the everlasting,
    the faint-pink roses
    that have never been improved, but come to bud
    then open like little soft sighs
    under the meadowlark’s whistle, its breath-praise,
    its thrill-song, its anthem, its thanks, its
    alleluia. Alleluia, oh Lord.

    Mary Oliver