Finding Fire

Sunrise
You can
die for it-

an idea,

or the world. People

have done so,

brilliantly,

letting

their small bodies be bound

to the stake,

creating

an unforgettable

fury of light. But

this morning,

climbing the familiar hills

in the familiar

fabric of dawn, I thought

of China,

and India

and Europe, and I thought

how the sun

blazes

for everyone just

so joyfully

as it rises

under the lashes

of my own eyes, and I thought

I am so many!

What is my name?

What is the name

of the deep breath I would take

over and over

for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is

happiness, it is another one

of the ways to enter

fire.

-Mary Oliver

Ode to a Friend

MINDFUL

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 was 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 presentaions.

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?

-Mary Oliver

On Being Called To Prayer While Cooking Dinner for Forty

When the heavens and the earth

are snapped away like a painted shade,

and every creature called to account,

please forgive me my head

full of chickpeas, garlic and parsley.

I am in love with the lemon

on the counter, and the warmth

of my brother’s shoulder distracted me

when we stood to pray.

The imam takes us over

for the first prostration,

but I keep one ear cocked

for the cry of the kitchen timer,

thrilled to realize today’s cornbread

might become tomorrow’s stuffing.

This thrift may buy me ten warm minutes

in bed tomorrow, before the singer

climbs the minaret in the dark

to wake me again to the work

of thought, word, deed.

I have so little time to finish;

only I know how to turn the dish, so the first taste

makes my brother’s eyes open wide--

forgive me, this pleasure

seems more urgent than the prayer--

too late to take refuge in You

from the inextricable mischief

of every thing You made,

eggs, milk, cinnamon, kisses, sleep.

-- Patrick Donnelly