Saturday's Poems

It's hard not to experience the beauty of God's creation at Mohonk. Yesterday it was overcast and rained almost the entire day and I don't think the temperature reached 60 degrees. This morning I arose early and was treated to a deep blue sky and the valley to the west between the ridge upon which Mohonk is located and the Catskills further west looked as though it had been blanketed with a thick layer of snow: it was ensconced in clouds. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

I then went out to the gardens whose vibrantly colored flowers glistened in the moisture from the previous day's rain and hung on the flowers and leaves in crystal beads. A couple of Mary Oliver's poems (from her book, Thirst) about roses came to mind, portions of which I want to share with you. The first poem has the title, "When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention."

"As long as we are able to
be extravagant we will be
hugely and damply
extravagant. Then we will drop
foil by foil to the ground. This
is our unalterable task, and we do it
joyfully."

...

Their fragrance all the while rising
from their blind bodies, making me
spin with joy.

The other poem is "The Poet Visits the Museum of Fine Arts."

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 entirety 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 leave and bud and look up
into the blue sky
or, with thanks,

...

Have I found any better teaching?
Not ever, not yet.
Last week I saw 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.