[lit-ideas] A gift to the List on this Christmas Day



THE POET VISITS THE MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS
                                  
                            -- by Mary Oliver

For a long time
    I was not even
       in this world, yet
          every summer

every rose
    opened in perfect sweetness
       and lived
          in gracious repose,

in its own exotic fragrance,
    in its huge willingness to give
      something, from its small self,
         to the entirety of the world.

I think of them, thousands upon thousands,
    in many lands,
       whenever summer came to them,
           rising

out of the patience of patience,
    to leaf and bud and look up
       into the blue sky
          or, with thanks,

into the rain
    that would feed
      their thirsty roots
         latched into the earth --

sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia,
     what did it matter,
        the answer was simply to rise
           in joyfulness, all their days.

Have I found any better teaching?
     Not ever, not yet.
        Last week I saw my first Botticelli
           and almost fainted,

and if I could I would paint like that
    but I am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs
       about roses: teachers, also, of the ways
           toward thanks, and praise. 

                        ********

Mike Geary
Memphis

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