Lilies
I have been thinking
about living
like the lilies
that blow in the fields.
They rise and fall
in the wedge of the wind,
and have no shelter
from the tongues of the cattle,
and have no closets of cupboards,
and have no legs.
Still I would like to be
as wonderful
as that old idea.
But if I were a lily
I think I would wait all day
for the green face
of the hummingbird
to touch me.
What I mean is,
could I forget myself
even in those feathery fields?
When Van Gogh
preached to the poor
of course he wanted to save someone-
most of all himself.
He wasn't a lily,
and wandering through the bright fields
only gave him more ideas
it would take his life to solve.
I think I will always be lonely
in this world, where the cattle
graze like a black and white river-
where the ravishing lilies
melt, without protest, on their tongues-
where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss,
just rises and floats away.
Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver
Oliver, Mary. "Lilies." House of Light. Boston: Beacon Press, 1990. p.12-13.
Other books by Mary Oliver; Twelve Moons, Dream Work, American Primitive, The Night Traveler, White Pine, Thirst
