Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Golden Rod by Mary Oliver

 On roadsides,
    in fall fields,
      in rumpy branches,
          saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,
    soft as mash,
        sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
             full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerets

and orange butterflies.
    I don't suppose
       much notice comes of it, except for honey,
            and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.
    I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps,
         the rocky voids
              filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself,
    I was just passing by, when the wind flared
        and the blossoms rustled,
             and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.
    I was just minding my own business
          when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
              citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?
    Are not the difficult labors of our lives
        full of dark hours?
           And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is better than these light-filled bodies?
    All day
         on their airy backbones
             they toss in the wind,

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
    they rise in a stiff sweetness,
         in the pure peace of giving
            one's gold away.