May, and among the miles of leafing,
blossoms storm out of the darkness—
windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees
dive into them and I too, to gather
their spiritual honey. Mute and meek,
yet theirs is the deepest certainty that
this existence too—this sense of
well-being, the flourishing of the
physical body—rides near the hub
of the miracle that everything
is a part of, is as good as a poem
or a prayer, can also make luminous
any dark place on earth.
Mary Oliver
Thank you to my friend Frances at Beautiful Strangers for reacquainting me with Mary's exquisite poem.
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