Wednesday, July 5, 2017

The pure peace of giving one's gold away (Mary Oliver)

 On roadsides,
    in fall fields,
      in rumpy branches,
         saffron and orange and pale gold,
in little towers,
   soft as mash,
      sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
         full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerets
and orange butterflies. 
   I don’t suppose
      much notice comes of it, except for honey,
         and how it heartens the heart with its
blank blaze.
    I don’t suppose anyone loves it except, perhaps,
       the rocky voids  
          filled by its dumb dazzle.
For myself,
   I was just passing by, when the wind flared
      and the blossoms rustled,
         and the glittering pandemonium
leaned on me.
   I was just minding my own business
      when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
                    citron and butter-colored,
and was happy, and why not?
   Are not the difficult labors of our lives
      full of dark hours?
         And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,
that is better than these light-filled bodies?
   All day
      on their airy backbones
         they toss in the wind,
they bend as through it was natural and godly to bend,
   they rise in a stiff sweetness,
                in the pure peace of giving
         one’s gold away.
--Mary Oliver, Goldenrod

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