How Perfectly

How perfectly

and neatly

opens the pink rose

this bright morning,

the sun warm

on my shoulders,

its heat

on the opening petals.

Possibly

it is the smallest,

the least important event

at this moment

in the whole world.

Yet I stand there,

utterly happy.

— Mary Oliver
From "Provincetown Arts", volume 24, 2009/10

Photo by Dan Hardison
Wilmington, North Carolina

Also available:
Read or print PDF

The Lily

Night after night

darkness

enters the face

of the lily

which, lightly,

closes its five walls

around itself,

and its purse

of honey,

and its fragrance,

and is content

to stand there

in the garden,

not quite sleeping,

and, maybe,

saying in lily language

some small words

we can't hear

even when there is no wind

anywhere,

its lips

are so secret,

its tongue

is so hidden –

or, maybe,

it says nothing at all

but just stands there

with the patience

of vegetables

and saints

until the whole earth has turned around

and the silver moon

becomes the golden sun –

as the lily absolutely knew it would,

which is itself, isn't it,

the perfect prayer?

— Mary Oliver
From her book "Why I Wake Early"

Photo by Dan Hardison
Columbia, Tennessee

Also available:
Read or print PDF