Night after night
darkness
enters the face
of the lily 
which, lightly, 
closes its five walls
around itself, 
and its purse 
of honey, 
and its fragrance, 
and is content
to stand there 
in the garden, 
not quite sleeping, 
and, maybe, 
saying in lily language 
some small words
we can’t hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere, 
its lips
are so secret, 
its tongue
is so hidden – 
or, maybe, 
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience 
of vegetables
and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon 
becomes the golden sun – 
as the lily absolutely knew it would, 
which is itself, isn’t it, 
the perfect prayer? 

Added: on March 7th, 2009 at 4:18 AM | Viewed: 3468 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Mary Oliver
Poem: The Lily

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