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 was 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