Mary Oliver


I had a dog
    who loved flowers.
         Briskly she went
              through the fields,

yet paused
    for the honeysuckle
         or the rose,
              her dark head

and her wet nose
         the face
              of every one

with its petals
    of silk,
         with its fragrance

into the air
     where the bees,
         their bodies
              heavy with pollen,

hovered —
      and easily 
         she adored
              every blossom,

not in the serious
      careful way
         that we choose
            this blossom or that blossom —

the way we praise or don’t praise — 
       the way we love
         or don’t love — 
               but the way

we long to be —
      that happy
         in the heaven of earth —
               that wild, that loving.