May by Mary Oliver

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.

—Mary Oliver