By Mary Oliver
Every day
I see or hear
Something
That more or less
Kills me
With delight,
That leaves me
Like a needle
In the haystack
Of light.
It is what I was born for--
To look, to listen,
To lose myself
Inside this soft world--
To instruct myself
Over and over
In joy,
And acclamation.
Nor am I talking
About the exceptional,
The fearful, the dreadful,
The very extravagant--
But of the ordinary,
The common, the very drab,
The daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
How can you help
But grow wise
With such teachings
As these--
The untrimmable light
Of the world,
The ocean's shine,
The prayers that are made
Out of grass?
