In the beginning there was the word

Gloucester, MA

A Certain Sharpness in the Morning Air

for it's true, isn't it,
in our world,
that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns
are a single thing-
that even the purest light, lacking the robe of darkness,
would be without expression-
that love itself, without its pain, would be
no more than a shruggable comfort.
                                                Mary Oliver



Peonies
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing forever?'
                                              Mary Oliver