“At Blackwater Pond”
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?
By Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver is a Pulitzer Prize winning poet, now age 78
Mary Oliver. Internet photo
Poem submitted by Lee Morgan. We welcome poems and short essays—fiction or non.