Image courtesy of Penguin Press
Beloved poet Mary Oliver has died at 83. Lynn Nearyâs lovely remembrance is here.
And hereâs her poem âWhen Death Comesâ
When Death Comes
When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox;
when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.
When itâs over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When itâs over, I donât want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I donât want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.
I donât want to end up simply having visited this world.
She will be sorely missed
â Petra
