It’s raining in Suva. I ate a Mary Oliver poem for dinner, along with mushroom stew and rice. On my walk home, I had a conversation with a yellow-beaked bird, bought a Fijian pumpkin (it is green with orangeish spots, awaiting carving later tonight), and let my mind fill with words.
play “You Are My Sunshine”
and hum “The Star
(bursts of patriotism,
from where and why?). I
roll with rivulets made by road’s edge.
Raw rugby players slosh and sprint
in a field that is half-puddle. Barefoot kids laugh
and find the biggest new pool––brown like milky tea––
to jump and plow through up to the ankle.
Everything smells green. I can take a deep breath of it
and huff and puff some of these clouds to California, yes?
Brush that landscape wet and clean (with breath)––
isn’t that how it works?
I’m winding my way through Mary Oliver’s Blue Horses, just released last week. What a delicious book. Here’s a taste:
Drifting, by Mary Oliver
I was enjoying everything: the rain, the path
wherever it was taking me, the earth roots
beginning to stir.
I didn’t intend to start thinking about God,
it just happened.
How God, or the gods, are invisible,
But holiness is visible, entirely.
It’s wonderful to walk along like that,
thought not the usual intention to reach an
but merely drifting.
Like clouds that only seem weightless.
but of course are not.
Are really important.
I mean, terribly important.
Not decoration by any means.
By next week the violets will be blooming.
Anyway, this was my delicious walk in the rain.
What was it actually about?
Think about what it is that music is trying to say.
It was something like that.