by Mary Oliver
Mr. Death, I am pleased to tell you, there are rifts in your long black coat. Today
Rumi (obit. 1273) came visiting, and not for the first time. True he didn’t
speak with his tongue but from memory, and whether he was short or tall I
still don’t know.
But he was as real as the tree I was under. Just because something’s physical
doesn’t mean it’s the greatest. He
offered a poem or two, then sauntered on.
I sat awhile feeling content and feeling contentment in the tree also. Isn’t
everything in the world shared? And one of the poems contained a tree, so of
course the tree felt included. That’s Rumi, who has no trouble slipping out of
your long black coat, oh Mr. Death.
Last updated December 22, 2022