Morning Poem by Mary Oliver

Maybe if you look hard enough through your sputtering laptop's files, you'll find the manuscript that wasn't in your priority search list. This is what happened early this morning. Mary Oliver came calling again before I could throw water on my face and brew coffee. What's an old girl to do but post this poem? It's a worthy companion, much loved and read over and over for comfort, and it'll be just here for ready reference when things get rocky or off kilter in the new week.

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.



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