Looking To The Centre Of Everything

Unrolling from my tongue one sentence at a time, the words of a Mary Oliver poem viewed through the thick-lensed glasses of one whose eyes wide open on the other side willingly conceptualize the poet's every word – and the mind in the plenitude of an echo follows their various trajectories. For a time at least, each word in its turn becomes a loyal companion igniting a soul toward some sense of discovery. Mary's song flung with light teaches yet another set of eyes the strength and beauty of the imagination. 

. . . . .

Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.

It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white

feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,

until at last, now, they shine

in your own yard?

Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

– Mary Oliver