Messenger

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Messenger
Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
/ equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
/ keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
/ astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
/ and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
/ to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

The Peace of Wild Things

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Wendell Berry:

 

When despair for the world grows in me 

and I wake in the night at the least sound 

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, 

I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. 

I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. 

I come into the presence of still water. 

And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. 

For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.