Longing for the warmth of Summer

 

Daisies

It is possible, I suppose that sometime 

we will learn everything 

there is to learn: what the world is, for example, 

and what it means. I think this as I am crossing 

from one field to another, in summer, and the 

mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either 

knows enough already or knows enough to be 

perfectly content not knowing. Song being born 

of quest he knows this: he must turn silent 

were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead 

oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly 

unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display 

the small suns of their center piece, their - if you don't 

mind my saying so - their hearts. Of course 

I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and 

narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know? 

But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given, 

to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly; 

for example - I think this 

as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch - 

the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the 

daisies for the field.

~Mary Oliver~