By Mary Oliver
I don’t care for adjectives, yet the world fills me with them.
And even beyond what I see, I imagine more.
Seeing, for example, with understanding,
or with acceptance and humility and
into the heart of the bristly, locked-in worm
just as it’s becoming what we call the luna,
that green tissue-winged, strange, graceful,
Will death allow such transportation of the eye?…
Well, we will all find out, each of us.
And what would we be, beyond the yardstick,
beyond supper and dollars,
if we were not filled with such wondering?