Poem: “White Eyes” by Mary Oliver

 In winter 

all the singing is in 

the tops of the trees 

where the wind-bird 

 

with its white eyes 

shoves and pushes 

among the branches. 

Like any of us 

 

he wants to go to sleep, 

but he is restless – 

he has an idea, 

and slowly it unfolds 

 

from under his beating wings 

as long as he stays awake. 

But his big, round music, after all, 

is too breathy to least. 

 

So, it’s over. 

In the pine-crown 

he makes his nest, 

he’s done all he can. 

I don’t know the name of this bird, 

I only imagine his glittering beak 

tucked in a white wing 

while the clouds – 

 

which he has summoned 

from the north – 

which he has taught 

to be mild, and silent – 

 

thicken, and begin to fall 

into the world below 

like stars, or the feathers 

of some unimaginable bird 

 

that loves us, 

that is asleep now, and silent – 

that has turned itself 

into snow.