All summer
I wandered the fields
that were thickening 
every morning, 

every rainfall, 
with weeds and blossoms, 
with the long loops
of the shimmering, and the extravagant-

pale as flames they rose
and fell back, 
replete and beautiful-
that was all there was-

and I too
once or twice, at least, 
felt myself rising, 
my boots

touching suddenly the tops of the weeds, 
the blue and silky air-
listen, 
passion did it, 

called me forth, 
addled me, 
stripped me clean
then covered me with the cloth of happiness-

I think there is no other prize, 
only rapture the gleaming, 
rapture the illogical the weightless-

whether it be for the perfect shapeliness
of something you love-
like an old German song-
or of someone-

or the dark floss of the earth itself, 
heavy and electric.
At the edge of sweet sanity open 
such wild, blind wings. 

Added: Apr 13 2005 | Viewed: 2048 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Mary Oliver
Poem: The Rapture

Poem of the Day on:
Jun 16 2008
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