Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End? Dont call this world adorable, or useful, thats not it. Its 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. Doesnt the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance? Havent the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe, until at last, now, they shine in your own yard? Dont 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? -from Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early (2004)
Posted on: Sun, 20 Oct 2013 04:27:14 +0000
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