June 6th was Daisy Mae’s birthday, so I am spending time with her memory and thinking sweet thoughts of her.
It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their — if you don’t
mind my saying so — their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example — I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch —
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.
Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early
3 Replies to “To My Mom”
What a precious poem. We are ALL so glad that you were the most important Daisy in our garden. Love and miss you Daisy, but I know that you are having way more fun now, than you were the last few years here. Say Hi to Janina for me.
Love Cathy….BTW….30 years today for us. Happy Anniversary Rick and Lora Lea :)
Hi Lora Lea! Mary Oliver is my favorite poet and I am not surprised that you enjoy her as well; she is particularly appropriate for your fond memories of your mother. Be well and feel the love all around you,