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 presentations.
     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?

Posted by kind permission of Salky Literary Management
Photo by Conor Sexton


Joy
Poetry