Lovely White Fields by Mary Oliver

 

Snowy White Fields  by Mary Oliver

Every night 

the owl

with his wild monkey-face

through the black

     branches, 

the mice freeze

and the rabbits shiver

in the snowy fields--

and then there is the long,

deep trough of silence

when he stops singing, and

     steps

into the air. 

I don't know

what death's ultimate

purpose is, but I think

this: whoever dreams of

     holding his

life in his fist

year after year into the

     hundreds of years

has never considered the

     owl--

how he comes, exhausted,

through the snow,

through the icy trees,

past icy snags and vines,

     wheeling 

out of barns and church

     steeples,

turning this way and that

     way

through the mesh of every 

     obstacle--

undeterred by anything--

filling himself time and time

     again

with a red and digestible joy

sickled up from the lonely,

     white fields--

and how at daybreak,

as though everything had

     been done

that must be done, the fields

swell with a rosy light,

the owl fades

back into the branches,

the snow goes on falling

flake after perfect flake.