A Poem for Cinnamon

[swan]

This is a poem by Mary Oliver. I share it here to honor Cinnamon who
passed away October 15, much too soon, and who definitely didn’t end
up simply having visited this world.


When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from
his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;


when death comes like the measles-pox;
when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,


I want to step through the door full of curiosity,
wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?


And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a
sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,


and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy,
and as singular,


and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.


When it’s over, I want to say:
all my life I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom taking the world into my arms.


When it is over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life
something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of
argument.


I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.


- Mary Oliver