I hope
I never forget
the smell of fresh beuhulks,
the sound of cranes overhead, and
the answering call of village boys.
•
I hope
I never forget
the warm sun on my face and
the cool breeze against my cheek.
I hope
I never forget
the creator of it all.
The Ponds by Mary Oliver
Every year
the lilies are so perfect
I can hardly believe
•
their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds,
Nobody could count all of them–
•
the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch
•
only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?
•
I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided–
and that one wears an orand blight–
and this one is a glossy cheek
•
half nibbled away–
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay
•
Still, what I want in my life
is the be willing
to be dazzled–
to cast aside the weight of facts
•
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking
•
into a white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing–
that the light is everything–that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading.
•
And I do.