I was strolling through the bookstore on my way to buy chocolate caramels for a friend, when a section of poetry books stopped me. Mary Oliver caught my eye, and I picked up a book of her poems. I flipped through the pages, reading some, liking them, but not feeling justified spending $14.00 to buy them until I read this one:
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.
How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.
Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.
I tucked the book under my arm and carried it with me to the candy counter. I purchased the poems and the chocolates, and headed out of the store, passing a book about the history of women's shoes and popping a chocolate caramel into my mouth, wondering if there is anything in this wide world that someone hasn't written a book about.