At Blackwater Pond. Mary Oliver.

And so here where I live the weather has just suddenly turned from hot, heavy, laden summer days to  cool, clean freshness in a drenching season change. Last night the rain came, in buckets, streaking lightening, soaking the flowerbeds, keeping us awake to storm-watch (and deeply breathe!) through open windows. What a constant delight the world can be, when I just let it touch me. When I look up from my desk and my work and my worries and just let the world and its moment include me, all of me, fully and completely. The shock and joy of utter presence, always 100% available. Amazing.


At Blackwater pond the tossed waters have


after a night of rain.

I dip my cupped hands. I drink

a long time. It tastes

like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold

in to my body, waking the bones. I hear them

deep inside me, whispering

oh what is that beautiful thing

that just happened?


Mary Oliver.


3 Replies to “At Blackwater Pond. Mary Oliver.”

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