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
thus 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, New and Selected Poems, v. 1 (p. 126)
16 January 2007 |
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Tags: Poetry