Out of the sump rise the marigolds.
From the rim of the marsh, muslin with mosquitoes,
rises the egret, in his cloud-cloth.
Through the soft rain, like mist, and mica,
...
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Napoleon's white horse was named Marengo, isn't it stuffed and residing in Paris at the Musée des Invalides? Why do I know these useless things?
This dear poem was read at the recent memorial service for my dear twin uncles. Just as the minister began to read it the Lord sent a rain shower, not the shovels full but a nice shower. It was a sweet miracle and I have loved this poem since then for that reason. I was not familiar with Mary Oliver and her poems but will certainly look them up and read more. Thanx, cbl