blue iris

now that i'm free to be myself, who am i?
can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly i walk.
well, i think, i can read books.
"what's that you're doing?"
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
i close the book.
well, i can write down words, like these, softly.
"what's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.
give me a little time, i say back to its staring, silver face.
it doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.
"doesn't it?" says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.
and my heart panics not to be, as i long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

mary oliver.