What is there beyond knowing that keeps
calling to me? I can't
turn in any direction
but it's there. I don't mean
the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's
silk song, but the far-off
fires, for example,
of the stars, heaven's slowly turning
theater of light, or wind
playful with its breath;
or time that's always rushing forward,
or standing still
in the same--what shall I say--
moment.
What I know
I could put into a pack
As if it were bread and cheese, and carry it
on one shoulder,
important and honorable, but so small!
While everything else continues, unexplained
and unexplainable. How wonderful it is
to follow a thought quietly
to its logical end.
I have done this a few times.
But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
in the middle of the would, breathing
in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name
but breath and light, wind and rain.
If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of grass and the weeds.
Ffrom [New Poems 2004-2005] of <>
by Mary Oliver, Published in 2005 by Beacon Press, Boston, US.
