Nature truly inspires the poet in most of us. When life is only too poignant that there is nothing left to do but to agonize about it, the agony of life gives birth to poetry inspired by beauty. Even in life’s sadness and pain, poets see beauty in them, and this is what Pamela Olson captured in her blog, Amputated Moon.

Pamela Olson “…Began writing while living in Mississippi, but it was a move to the southern Oregon coast that led [her] to begin writing about nature. She is a West Coast native transplanted into the deep South, and she hopes [that her readers would] enjoy [her] writings.

Excerpts after the jump.

Excerpts from Amputated Moon:

Valley of Bones

The Lord set me down in the valley,

the fertile crescent beginning.

It was full of bones:     clavicle, carpal, calcaneus

lying in the valley:       fabella, femur, fibula

and they were very dry.          hamate, hyoid, humerus

He led me around them:         ilum, incus, lacrimal

in a slow dance:          parietal, patella

kicking up the bone dust:        sacrum, scapula, sternum

stirring the breath of God.       tibia, talus, turbinate

Can these bones live?

Higher, higher they are piled

800,000-plus dry bones

wrapped with sacred cloth:     red, whte and blue

young, strong bones

groaning in their sorrowful hymn.

Still I dance around

Seventeen-million more bones

lying on their natal ground.

And the dust swirls

forming a cloud of garnet

raising the scent of blood.

Listen, mortal,

your brother’s blood

your sister’s blood is crying,

crying out to me from the ground.

The sobs form the walls of this valley

and its rhythm-beat

drives your dance.

Then He said to me,

Prophesy to these bones, mortal.

So I prophesy.

The bones fall together

end to end:      metatarsal, malleus

bone to bone:  maxilla, vertebrae

sinews and flesh echo in the waiting silence.

Prophesy to the breath, mortal.

I prophesy,

and the breath comes             from the north

and the breath comes             from the south

and the breath comes             from the east

and the breath comes             from  the west

The dead cry out—

our bones are dry,

our hope is lost;

each hour more join our valley with no end in sight.

Who will see us?

Who will hear us?

Who will bring us peace?

And the Lord said,

Prophesy mortal, prophesy.

*Based on Ezekiel 37.  Bone numbers are derived from Iraqi Body Count and US military deaths multiplied by the number of bones in the human body.