Poppies
Mary Oliver

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

I just love this poem. It is one of my favorites...and I have a hard time choosing favorites in most situations. The subject matter, the imagery, the truths expressed.

And Im grateful that I know what it means to be washed and washed in the river of earthly delight and etheral delight in that momentary bliss when they are, in fact, one and the same. That moment when the expansive poppy sky spreads forth and moves away away away over the horizon with the sweeping storm clouds that half-obscure its red glow. That moment when the autumn leaves, at the climax of their death-song, are literally intoxicating and God and Universe and Earth and All are sweeping me up and saturating my senses. And what are you going to do about it, deep blue night?