by Mary Oliver
The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation
of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't
sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage
shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,
black, curved blade
from looking forward--
of course
loss is the great lesson.
But also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,
when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,
touched by their rough and spongy gold,.
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight--
and what are you going to do--
what can you do
about it--
deep, blue night?
from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver
Penguin, 2017 
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