by Mary Oliver
Lord, my body is not yet a temple,
but only one of your fair fields.
An empty field that nobody wants, at least not yet.
But even here the lily is somewhere.
Sometimes it lifts its head above the grasses,
the daisies, the milkweed, the mallow.
And sometimes, like us, it sleeps, or at least
leans below the blades of the grasses.
Lord, I live as you have made me to live.
I bite hungrily into the peach and the turnip.
I bite, with sorrow, into the calf and the lamb.
I drink the tears of the clouds.
I praise the leaves of the shrub oaks
and the pine trees in their bold coats.
I listen and give thanks to the catbird and the thrush.
Meanwhile, the fox knows where you are.
The bees leave the swamp azalea and fly straight
to the shadow of your face.
Meanwhile my body is rustic and brash.
The world I live in is hedges, and small blossoms.
Lord, consider me, and my earnest work.
A hut I have made out of the grasses.
Now I build the door, out of all things brash and rustic.
Day and night it is open.
Have you seen it yet, among the grasses?
How it longs for you?
How it tries to shine, like gold?