DAISIES
It is possible, I suppose
that sometime
we will learn
everything
there is to learn: what the
world is, for example,
and what it means. I think
this as I am crossing
from one field to another,
in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me,
as one who either
knows enough already or
knows enough to be
perfectly content not
knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he
must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted
with answers. Instead
oh hear his wild, caustic,
tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the
white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their
center piece, their -- if you don't
mind my saying so -- their
hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps
their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the
roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven
itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what
the sun lights up willingly;
for example -- I think
this
as I reach down, not to pick
but merely to touch --
the suitability of the field
for the daisies, and the
daisies for the
field.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Why I Wake Early, 2004)
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