Happy Crafter: river

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Tuesday, February 7, 2012

so much snow

Snow along the Platte River in Littleton during February

Goldfinches by Mary Oliver, Poet

In the fields
we let them have---
in the fields
we don't want yet---

where thistles rise
out of the mashlands of spring, and spring open---
each bud
a settlement of riches---

a coin of reddish fire---
the finches
wait for midsummer,
for the long days,

for the brass heat,
for the seeds to begin to form in the hardening thistles,
dazzling as the teeth of mice,
but black,

filling the face of every flower.
Then they drop from the sky.
A buttery gold,
they swing on the thistles, they gather

the silvery down, they carry it
in their finch beaks
to the edges of the fields,
to the trees,

as though their minds were on fire
with the flower of one perfect idea---
and there they build their nests
and lay their pale-blue eggs,

every year,
and every year
the hatchlings wake in the swaying branches,
in the silver baskets,

and love the world.
Is it necessary to say any more?
Have you heard them sing in the wind
above the final fields?
Have you every been so happy in your life?