July 10: "Snow Geese," Long Day, Gilded in Gold

Mary Oliver loves something that will not last . . . 

Snow Geese

by:  Mary Oliver

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

     What a task

          to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours, 

     and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard

     above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound

I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it

     faster than the ones we usually see,

and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden.  I

held my breath

as we do 

sometimes

to stop time

when something wonderful

has touched us

as with a match

which is lit, and bright,

but does not hurt 

in the common way,

but delightfully,

as if delight 

were the most serious thing

you ever felt.

The geese

flew on.

I have never 

seen them again.

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.

Maybe I won't.

It doesn't matter.

What matters

is that, when I saw them,

I saw them

as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

I had a Mary Oliver snow geese moment this evening.

I'd just arrived home after a long day of work.  Tired and hungry, I sat on the couch to wolf down a late dinner of leftover ravioli and meatballs.  No energy.  Eyes watering for sleep.  I wanted to do nothing but eat, grab a pillow, stream some random movie I've seen a hundred times, and go to sleep.

My wife came out of the kitchen and said, "Have you seen outside?"

I shook my head.

"You should go look," she said.

It was 9:30 p.m., and most of the evening had been a downpour of rain, lightning, and thunder.  Reluctantly, I put aside my bowl of ravioli and went to my front door, not expecting anything mind-blowing or breath-catching.

The whole neighborhood was gilded in gold.  That's the best way I can describe it.  The trees and grasses and houses and parked cars.  It wasn't the green light that appears before a tornado.  Or the pink light that sometimes signals the end of a hot summer day.  It literally seemed like I was looking at the world through yellow-tinted glasses.  

I stood there, staring, holding my breath as Oliver does when she sees the snow geese.  Then, my cellphone rang.  It was my daughter, telling me to look out the window.  I told her I was standing outside already.  I looked at my arms and hands.  My skin was tinged with gold.

Then, I saw a double rainbow above my neighbor's roof.  It arced over the heavens, dividing the sky into two pieces.  As I was standing there, the world morphed into another color--salmon pink.  I took some pictures, although that goes against my better judgment.  My phone camera can never capture what my eyes see.  (I'm positive Mary Oliver never mediated her experiences of nature.  She saw stuff and then went home and wrote poems about it instead.)  

I may never see a sky like that again.  Or maybe I will, someday, somewhere.  

As Oliver says, what matters is that Saint Marty saw it tonight as through a veil--secretly, joyfully, clearly.