May

The following is a poem by Mary Oliver titled “May.”

May, and among the miles of leafing, blossoms storm out of the darkness–windflowers and moccasin flowers.

The bees dive into them and I too, to gather their spiritual honey.

Mute and meek, yet theirs is the deepest certainty that this existence too–this sense of well-being, the flourishing of the physical body–

rides near the hub of the miracle that everything is a part of, is as good as a poem or a prayer, can also make luminous any dark place on earth.

“Make a joyful noise to God, all the earth; sing the glory of his name; give to him glorious praise. Say to God, ‘How awesome are your deeds!'” (Psalm 66:1-3a)