Snow Geese
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Why I Wake Early)
Géanna Sneachta
Aoibhinn taitneamh a thabhairt don ní álainn nach mairfidh!
A leithéid de chúram
bheith
Ar aon ní, ar éinne,
Sé ár gcúram é ar a shon san
agus ní in aghaidh an chéid ná in aghaidh na bliana, ach in aghaidh na huaire é.
Tharla lá sa bhfómhar gur chuala
os mo chionn in airde agus os cionn ghoimh na gaoithe, fuaim
nár aithníos, agus d’fhéachas in airde láithreach; ealta
Géanna sneachta a bhí ann, níos tapúla
ná na géanna a fheicimid de ghnáth,
Agus toisc iad a bheith ar dhath an tsneachta, an ghrian gafa acu,
Bhíodar dá réir sin, órbhreactha. Choinníos
M’anáil istigh
mar a dheinimid
uaireanta
chun an t-am a stopadh
nuair a tharlaíonn
rud éigin iontach dúinn
Ar nós cipín solais,
a lastar, is atá geal
ach nach ngortaíonn sinn
sa ghnáthshlí,
Ach go haoibhinn,
faoi mar ba é an t-aoibhneas
an rud is dáiríre
a bhraithis riamh.
D’eitil
na géanna leo.
Ní fhaca ó shin iad.
B’fhéidir go bhfeicfinn, lá éigin, áit éigin iad.
B’fhéidir nach bhfeicfinn.
Is cuma.
Sé is tábhachtaí ná: nuair a chonac iad
ba trí chaille é, faoi rún, faoi aoibhneas, soiléir.