Thirst: Poems

For a long time I was not even In this world, yet Every summer Every rose Opened in perfect sweetness And lived In gracious repose, In its own exotic fragrance, In its huge willingness to give Something, from its small self, To the entirely of the world. I think of them, thousands upon thousands, In many lands, Whenever summer came to them, Rising Out of the patience of patience, To leaf and bud and look up Into the blue sky Or, with thanks, Into the rain That would feed Their thirsty roots Latched into the earth- Sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia, What did it matter, The answer was simply to rise In joyfulness, all their days. Have I found any better teaching? Not ever, not yet. Last week I say my first Botticelli And almost fainted, And if I could I would paint like that But am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs About roses: teachers, also, of the ways Toward thanks, and praise.

When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness, I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile." The light flows from their branches. And they call again, "It's simple," they say, "and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine."