I see or hear


               that more or less

kills me

     with delight,

           that leaves me

               like a needle

in the haystack

     of light.

          It was what I was born for —

               to look, to listen,

to lose myself

     inside this soft world —

          to instruct myself

                over and over

in joy,

     and acclamation.

          Nor am I talking

               about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

     the very extravagant —

          but of the ordinary,

                the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

     Oh, good scholar,

          I say to myself,

               how can you help

but grow wise

     with such teachings

          as these —

               the untrimmable light

of the world,

     the ocean’s shine,

          the prayers that are made

               out of grass?


–Mary Oliver














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