Poetry Friday



Every Day
​​​​​​​I see or hear
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?

Mary Oliver