September 23: "Morning Poem," Forgive Me, Gold and Red Leaves

Mary Oliver recites her . . . 

Morning Prayer

by:  Mary Oliver

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night 

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn 

that is heavier than lead--

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging--

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted--

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

You are going to have to forgive me tonight.  I'm writing this post very late and am not feeling very poetic.  I should have sat down early this morning to write, but I found myself too distracted by life to pull together anything profound or interesting.

So, instead, I will give you a weather report.

It was a warm first day of autumn, and by warm I mean that stepping outside did not require any kind of jacket.  The heavens were mostly blue, and the moon is bright and high, but not full, tonight.  No rain.  Just gold and red leaves lifting their palms in applause or prayer.

I have dared to be happy.  I've also carried around a thorn heavier than lead, too.  Sometimes, I've done both of these things simultaneously.  That's just the way it is.  Happiness and sadness, flipsides of the same coin.

Saint Marty will try to remember to say a prayer tomorrow morning.