Mindfulness
by Mary Oliver
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light
It is 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 presentation.
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?
I love bicycle photos! Your poem reminded me of one of my favorites...I hope you don't mind if I share it:
ReplyDeleteLEARNING THE BICYCLE
THE OLDER CHILDREN PEDAL PAST
STABLE AS LITTLE GYROS, SPINNING HARD
TO SUPPER, BATH, AND BED, UNTIL AT LAST
WE ALSO QUIT, SILENT AND TIRED
BESIDE THE DARKENING YARD WHERE TREES
NOW SHADOW UP INSTEAD OF DOWN.
THEIR PREDICTABLE LENGTHS CAN ONLY TEASE
HER AS, HEAD LOWERED,SHE WALKS HER BIKE ALONE
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HER WANTING TO RIDE
AND HER CERTAINTY SHE WILL ALWAYS FALL.
TOMORROW, THOUGH I WILL RUN BEHIND,
ARMS OUT TO CATCH HER, SHE'LL TILT THEN BALANCE WIDE
SMALLER, BEYOND THE PLACE I STOP AND KNOW
THAT TO TEACH HER I HAD TO FOLLOW
AND WHEN SHE LEARNED I HAD TO LET HER GO.
Great poem. Yes, the bicycle comes with many memories and stories.
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