The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water
by Mary Oliver
Inside
that mud-hive, that gas-sponge,
that reeking
leaf-yard, that rippling
dream-bowl, the leeches'
flecked and swirling
broth of life, as rich
as Babylon,
the fists crack
open and the wands
of the lilies
quicken, they rise
like pale poles
with their wrapped beaks of lace;
one day
they tear the surface,
the next they break open
over the dark water.
And there you are
on the shore,
fitful and thoughtful, trying
to attach them to an idea —
some news of your own life.
But the lilies
are slippery and wild—they are
devoid of meaning, they are
simply doing,
from the deepest
spurs of their being,
what they are impelled to do
every summer.
And so, dear sorrow, are you.
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