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Poppies
by Mary
Oliver
The
poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation
of
bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't
sooner
or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage
shines
like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,
black, curved blade
from hooking forward-
of course
loss is the great lesson.
But
also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,
when
it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,
touched
by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight-
and
what are you going to do-
what can you do
about it-
deep, blue night?
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