Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight, 
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen, 
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy, 
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional, 
the fearful, the dreadful, 
the very extravagant - 
but of the ordinary, 
the common, the very drab, 
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar, 
I say to myself, 
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world, 
the ocean's shine, 
the prayers that are made
out of grass? 

Added: Apr 13 2005 | Viewed: 2361 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Mary Oliver
Poem: Mindful

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