Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless,--
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.

Forgetfulness is rain at nighm,
Or an old house in a forest,--or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.

I can remember much forgetfulness.           p. 1918
 
 
 

Mary Oliver

Goldenrod

On roadsides,
  in fall fields,
    in rumpy bunches,
       saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,
  soft as mash,
    sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
       full of bees sand yellow beads and perfect flowerlets

and orange butterflies.
  I don't suppose
    much notice comes of it, except for honey,
        and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.
  I don't suppose anything loves it, except, perhaps,
    the rocky voids
       filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself,
    I was just passing by, when the wind flared
        and the blossoms rustled,
            and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.
    I was just minding my own business
       when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
            citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?
    Are not the difficult labors of our lives
        full of dark hours?
            And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is better than these light-filled bodies?
    All day
        on their airy backbones
            they toss in the wind,

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
    they rise in a stiff sweetness,
        in the pure peace of giving
            one's gold away.                   1992.