A boxwood blooms in my yard this November. Delicate white flowers rise out of its green depths. What wonder is this?

On closer examination, it appears that a vine has grown up among the holes in the damaged boxwood. I learn that the vine is a kind of wild clematis. I’ve not seen anything like it.

The strange visitor may stay as long as she likes, we decided – the boxwood and I. (“I always wanted a beautiful white bloom, even when I didn’t know it,” the wounded boxwood whispers.)

***

Invitation
by Mary Oliver

Oh, do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
it could mean everything.
it could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
you must change your life.

*     *     *

Also blooming out of season this November – angel trumpets

 

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Pepper and Poems

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