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Early evening and I ache for sleep. A day filled with errands and doing, doing, doing.
Laundry, crisp from the line waits to be put away.
The plum tree drops jewel bombs helter skelter on the lawn, a deliciously mad race with dribbles on our chins.
Wind whispers through the birch while the hubster drums wildly at the piano keys.
Milo prostrates in the sun and Paris snores from the center of the room, not to be forgotten.
This and that, all of it home.
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
Mary Oliver
Tags: Poetry
