Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Mary Oliver
Night after night
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
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?

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