by mary oliver, from "blue horses"
angels are wonderful but they are so, well, aloof
it's what i sense in the mud and the roots of the
trees, or the well, or the barn, or the rock with
it's citron map of lichen that halts my feet and
makes my eyes flare, feeling the presence of some
spirit, some small god, who abides there.
if i were a perfect person, i would be bowing
continuously.
i'm not, though i pause wherever i feel this
holiness, which is why i'm so often late coming
back from wherever i went.
forgive me.