Daisies

 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 is 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 know 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-petaled 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 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 ~