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
No comments:
Post a Comment