Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Mary Oliver Makes Me Love Nature

I am not made for sunlight and hiking.  I am not the girl that wants to prove her tomboy capabilities, but Mary Oliver makes a part of me wish I was.

Mary Oliver makes me wish I had paid attention to birds and butterflies that fluttered above me during the El Dorado Nature Walk when I was 8 instead of focussing on avoiding crawly things on the ground.

If I could write about anything this well, I would love it too, and make the reader fall in love too.


By Mary Oliver

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
 But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.

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