Daisies

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Daisies

It is possible, I suppose
that sometime
we will learn everything there is to learn:
what the world is, for example,
and what it means.

I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing.

Song being born of quest he knows this:
he must turn silent were he suddenly assaulted with answers.

Instead oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered.

At my feet the white-petalled daisies display the small suns of their center piece, their - if you don't mind my saying so - their hearts.

Of course I could be wrong,
perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots.
What do I know?
But this:
it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example - I think this as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch - the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the daisies for the field.

-- Mary Oliver






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