words borrowed from Mary Oliver

I was on a poetry kick the other day (notice I even added a fifth book to my reading list...), and happened upon this gem of a poem by Mary Oliver, who writes about so much more than just a mockingbird. Which is, sadly, the one bird I don't have a picture of.

The Mockingbird

All summer

the mockingbird

In his pearl-gray coat

and his white-windowed wings

flies

from the hedge to the top of the pine

and begins to sing, but it's neither

lilting nor lovely,

for he is the thief of other sounds -

whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges

plus all the songs

of other birds in his neighborhood;

mimicking and elaborating,

he sings with humor and bravado,

so I have to wait a long time

for the softer voice of his own life

to come through. He begins

by giving up all his usual flutter

and settling down on the pine's forelock

then looking around

as though to make sure he's alone;

then he slaps each wing against his breast, 

where his heart is,

and, copying nothing, begins

easing into it

as though it was not half so easy

as rollicking,

as though his subject now

was his true self,

which of course was as dark and secret 

as anyone else's,

and it was too hard -

perhaps you understand -

to speak or to sing it

to anything or anyone

but the sky.

--Mary Oliver