Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?
Cant’ fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think, I can read books.
‘What’s that you’re doing?’
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
'What's that you're doing?' whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.
in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
'Doesn't it?' says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.
distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
—Mary Oliver
"Blue Iris," from What Do We Know: Poems and Prose Poems (Da Capo Press, 2002)
June, oil/ cold wax on canvas, plein air, 12x18in
copyright Jan Yates, 2014, available
