Trout Lily

It happened that I couldn’t find in all my books

more than a picture and a few words concerning

the trout lily,

so I shut my eyes.

And let the darkness come in

and roll me back.

The old creek

began to sing in my ears

as it rolled along, like the hair of spring,

and the young girl I used to be

heard it also,

as she came swinging into the woods,

truant from everything as usual

except the clear globe of the day, and its

beautiful details.

Then she stopped,

where the first trout lilies of the year

had sprung from the ground

with their spotted bodies

and their six-antlered bright faces,

and their many red tongues.

If she spoke to them, I don’t remember what she said,

and if they kindly answered, it’s a gift that can’t be broken

by giving it away.

All I know is, there was a light that lingered, for hours,

under her eyelids–that made a difference

when she went back to a difficult house, at the end of the day.

~Mary Oliver~