Poppies <br />Mary Oliver <br /> <br />The poppies send up their <br />orange flares; swaying <br />in the wind, their congregations <br />are a levitation <br /> <br />of bright dust, of thin <br />and lacy leaves. <br />There isn't a place <br />in this world that doesn't <br /> <br />sooner or later drown <br />in the indigos of darkness, <br />but now, for a while, <br />the roughage <br /> <br />shines like a miracle <br />as it floats above everything <br />with its yellow hair. <br />Of course nothing stops the cold, <br /> <br />black, curved blade <br />from hooking forward— <br />of course <br />loss is the great lesson. <br /> <br />But I also say this: that light <br />is an invitation <br />to happiness, <br />and that happiness, <br /> <br />when it's done right, <br />is a kind of holiness, <br />palpable and redemptive. <br />Inside the bright fields, <br /> <br />touched by their rough and spongy gold, <br />I am washed and washed <br />in the river <br />of earthly delight— <br /> <br />and what are you going to do— <br />what can you do <br />about it— <br />deep, blue night?<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poppies-2/
