In A Sunlit Room

The colour of poetry tingles because of

the movement of a few words.

. . . . .

Hello, sun in my face. 
Hello you who made the morning 
and spread it over the fields…

– Mary Oliver

. . . . .

And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to
make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws
at you every morning. Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?

– Mary Oliver

. . . . .

For poems are not words, after all, 
but fires for the cold, ropes let down 
to the lost, something as necessary
as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

– Mary Oliver