Gratitude: February 12, 2023

1. Percy Wakes Me

Percy wakes me and I am not ready.

He has slept all night under the covers.

Now he's eager for action:  a walk, then breakfast.

He is sitting on the kitchen counter 

where he is not supposed to be.

How wonderful you are, I say. 

How clever, if you needed me, to wake me.

He thought he would hear a lecture and 

deeply his eyes begin to shine.

He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.

He squirms and squeals; he has done something that he needed 

and now he hears that it's okay.

I scratch his ears, I turn him over 

and touch him everywhere.  He is

wild with the okayness of it.  Then we walk, then 

he has breakfast, and he is happy.

This is a poem about Percy.

This is a poem about more than Percy.

Think about it. 

Mary Oliver

2. The Sun

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything

such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

Mary Oliver

3. For I will consider my dog Percy 

For he was made small but brave of heart.

For if he met another dog he would kiss her in kindness.

For when he slept he snored only a little.

For he could be silly and noble in the same moment.

For when he spoke he remembered the trumpet and when
       he scratched he struck the floor like a drum.

For he ate only the finest food and drank only the
       purest of water, yet would nibble of the dead fish also.

For he came to me impaired and therefore certain of
       short life, yet thoroughly rejoiced in each day.

For he took his medicines without argument.

For he played easily with the neighborhood’s bull
       mastiff.

For when he came upon mud he splashed through it.

For he was an instrument for the children to learn 
       benevolence upon.

For he listened to poems as well as love-talk.

For when he sniffed it was as if he were being
       pleased by every part of the world.

For when he sickened he rallied as many times as
       he could.

For he was a mixture of gravity and waggery.

For we humans can seek self-destruction in ways
       he never dreamed of.

For he took actions both cunning and reckless, yet
       refused always to offer himself to be admonished.

For his sadness though without words was
       understandable.

For there was nothing sweeter than his peace 
       when at rest.

For there was nothing brisker than his life when 
       in motion.

For he was of the tribe of Wolf.

For when I went away he would watch for me at
       the window.

For he loved me.

For he suffered before I found him, and never
       forgot it.

For he loved Anne.

For when he lay down to enter sleep he did not argue
       about whether or not God made him.

For he could fling himself upside down and laugh
       a true laugh.

For he loved his friend Ricky.

For he would dig holes in the sand and then let
       Ricky lie in them.

For I often see his shape in the clouds and this is a
       continual blessing.

Mary Oliver