My Love, My Postmark, My Hands...

There is little, besides, of course, the living breathing aliveness of all my best beloveds near and far, that I love and cherish and NEED more than poetry. Its fullness, its prominence, its heartbeat in my life lo, these many years, has been painfully--and I mean nearly deathly in its lacking--lacking. Never, ever, however, never, never, never is it or can it be gone until I am gone. It is, as Anne Sexton once said, "my love, my postmark, my kitchen, my face." This, in spite of many uncertainties, endless uncertainties, is one thing I know to be true. So, without further ado, is a blessed poem from one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, featured on Writer's Almanac today.

Coming Home
by Mary Oliver

When we're driving, in the dark,
on the long road
to Provincetown, which lies empty
for miles, when we're weary,
when the buildings
and the scrub pines lose
their familiar look,
I imagine us rising from the speeding car,
I imagine us seeing everything from another place — the top
of one of the pale dunes
or the deep and nameless
fields of the sea —
and what we see is the world
that cannot cherish us
but which we cherish,
and what we see is our life
moving like that,
along the dark edges
of everything — the headlights
like lanterns
sweeping the blackness —
believing in a thousand
fragile and unprovable things,
looking out for sorrow,
slowing down for happiness,
making all the right turns
right down to the thumping
barriers to the sea,
the swirling waves,
the narrow streets, the houses,
the past, the future,
the doorway that belongsto you and me.

Comments

venus11 said…
Hey, Ama - great blog! This made me nostalgic for P'town...And we used to live a couple of blocks from cemetery where A. Sexton is - and e.e. cummings! Miss you, St. Aug and our tribe...love, Deirdre & jackie

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