Saturday Poetry July 2

When Death Comes

By Mary Oliver

When death comes

like a hungry bear in

   autumn;

When death comes and

   takes all the bright coins

   from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the

   purse shut;

when death comes

like the measles-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the

   shoulder blades,

I want to step through the

   door full of curiosity,

   wondering:

what is it going to be like,

   that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon

   everything

as a brotherhood and a

   sisterhood

and I look upon time as no

   more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as

   another possibility,

and I think of each life as a 

  flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as

   singular,

and each name a

   comfortable music in the

   mouth,

tending, as all music does,

   toward silence,

and each body a lion of

   courage, and something

   precious to the earth.  

When it's over, I want to

   say: all my life

I was a bride married to

   amazement,

I was the bridegroom,

   taking the world into my

   arms. 

When its's over, I don't want to

   wonder 

if I have made of my life

   something particular, and

   real. 

I don't want to find myself

   sighing and frightened,

   or full of argument. 

I don't want to end up

   simply visiting this

   world.