My Mary Oliver Poems #2 - "Wrens"

    “The little wrens have carried a hundred sticks into an old rusted pail and now they are singing in the curtains of leaves they are, fluttering down to the bog they are dipping their darling heads down to wet their whistles how happy they are to be diligent at last” (p. 46-47).

    As she ventures out into the “wide gardens of wastefields blue glass clear glass and other rubbishes,” Oliver makes note of the little wrens gathering their sticks to build their houses, enjoying the refreshment of the bog, and singing a familiar tune. Amidst the wasteland of glass and rubbish, these little wrens – as she refers to them in the final line of the poem, these “foolish birds” – struggle on to provide for themselves and survive. As I was reading through the poem, I was reminded of the tranquility of my Grandma’s garden – the chickadees singing and the woodpecker pecking, the squirrels darting here and there, the purple pansies and hostas sprouting up, the bubbling fountain, and a frenzy of wings and tails as everyone tried to take a bath or have a drink. This poem reminded me of the restlessness and energy of nature; it reminded me of the long afternoons sitting on the steps of my Grandma’s garden, watering the planets, looking out for and listening for the garden’s inhabitants, and watching the world go by.