.
.
What is there beyond knowing that keeps
calling to me? I can't
.
turn in any direction
but it's there. I don't mean
.
the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's
silk song, but the far-off
.
fires, for example,
of the stars, heaven's slowly turning
.
theater of light, or the wind
playful with its breath;
.
or time that's always rushing forward,
or standing still
.
in the same -- what shall I say --
moment.
.
What I know
I could put into a pack
.
as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it
on one shoulder,
.
important and honorable, but so small!
While everything else continues, unexplained
.
and unexplainable. How wonderful it is
to follow a thought quietly
.
to its logical end.
I have done this a few times.
.
But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
in the middle of the world, breathing
.
in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name
but breath and light, wind and rain.
.
If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass
and the weeds.
.
~ Mary Oliver
(New and Selected Poems Volume Two)
.
