— Mary Oliver

Out of the sump rise the marigolds.
From the rim of the marsh, muslin with mosquitoes,
rises the egret, in his cloud-cloth.
Through the soft rain, like mist, and mica,
the withered acres of moss begin again.

When I have to die, I would like to die
on a day of rain—
long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

And I would like to have whatever little ceremony there might be
take place while the rain is shoveled and shoveled out of the sky,

and anyone who comes must travel, slowly and with thought,
as around the edges of the great swamp.

(I picked up a copy of Oliver’s New and Selected Poems, Vol. One after finding her online a few weeks ago. Her imagery is much more nature-based than what I’m accustomed to, but quite a few of the poems really work for me. Most particularly this one, for obvious reasons.

Also, when I selected this quarter’s banner art I never imagined the events that would come to pass, or what it would be like to look at that one sharply focused gravestone every time I come to my blog.)