Inside
that mud-hive, that gas-sponge,
that reeking
leaf-yard, that rippling
·
dream-bowl, the leeches’
flecked and swirling
broth of life, as rich
as Babylon,
·
the fists crack
open and the wands
of the lilies
quicken, they rise
·
like pale poles
with their wrapped beaks of lace;
one day
they tear the surface,
·
the next they break open
over the dark water.
And there you are
on the shore,
·
fitful and thoughtful, trying
to attach them to an idea—
some news of your own life,
But the lilies
·
are slippery and wild—they are
devoid of meaning, they are
simply doing,
from the deepest
·
spurs of their being,
what they are impelled to do
every summer.
And so, dear sorrow, are you.
—Mary Oliver
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