Poem written with the same structure as White Geese by Mary Oliver, as an exercise in poetry and style.
You do not have to understand.
You do not have to see it is wisdom that is handed to you
when
your mother is lost, moving closer to
her own center instead of seeing
that you need her.
When
you come out of the hospital in a braced body,
when
the man you love tells you that you are
too young and you should just live your life.
You do not have to know it is wisdom.
She takes so many different
shapes. You could not recognize her:
a dead father, a needle, a walk in the Golden Gate Park,
a book in a foreign language, too many parties,
a narcissistic teacher.
You only have to keep living, remember what happened,
and let your experience stay inside
of you, safe and warm.
Tell me about grief, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile, you weep, and you smile.
Meanwhile, the snakes wake up in the Spring and lay
their soft bodies on the stonewall, facing South.
Meanwhile, children are born, illuminating the darkness
of the sky and giggling at the dining table while
the white dog sleeps on the doorstep.
Meanwhile, the old Titan holds the skies,
so the dance of the stars is not interrupted.
Some things are more important than we will ever know.
Wisdom is handed to you in disguise when you don't expect her.
Sometimes she comes silently. Sometimes she approaches
with such a ruckus that you can not believe it's her.
Whoever you are, no matter how blind or insightful,
you will miss her entry most of the time.
It does not matter
if you are still drinking after fifteen surgeries or
leaving your country for the man you love.
It does not matter
if you are writing poetry about the geese that fly above your head,
a few minutes after a phone call from your oncologist,
or if you just turned thirteen and have
dreams too big for this world.
Wisdom is what works, said Clarissa Pinkola Estes.
Wisdom is what works.
Listen to Mary Oliver reading Wild Geese: