To What is Lovely

It's not everyday that you get to hang out with a great lady, but today was one of those days.  Here's a poem that captures afternoons at this wooden palace on a beaver pond, and how the present becomes a present:

Snow Geese

Mary Oliver

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

       What a task

           to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,

    and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard

  above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound

I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it

    faster than the ones we usually see,

and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden.  I

held my breath 

as we do

sometimes

to stop time

when something wonderful

has touched us

as with a match

which is lit, and bright,

but does not hurt

in the common way, 

but delightfully,

as if delight

were the most serious thing

you ever felt.

The geese 

flew on.

I have never

seen them again.

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.

Maybe I won't.

It doesn't matter.

What matters

is that, when I saw them,

I saw them

as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

"As if delight were the most serious thing you ever felt"... and perhaps it is.  After all, "light" is caught up in the word itself - and we all know we do a little bit better with a little more light, from both the sky and people.  

Here's to all the light and lights in our lives - "what matters is that, when I saw them, I saw them". 

I bought the brightest ones.

Neon flowers

White roses

Whooosh

Up to the window

Higher than a compost pile

Walk on

The wind whipped up the snow at just the right time.

Tracks of something...

He's got the right idea

Pretty

Hello.