MORNING

Sunday morning, which means I head for church not so much for the gathering of religious edification but for the sense of community and caring and sharing which is palpable. The pews are so uncomfortable that they prick your conscience and force you to listen and reflect. Inside the order of today's service was a poem to be read aloud by the congregation. I pass it along to you as I think it is quite lovely, and I like the way it is spaced. Space does, I feel, add so much to the meaning. Ms. Oliver is a well-known, current American poet whose images are rooted in the natural world. My kind of gal. I pass it along for the keeping or the deleting.

MORNING POEM

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
You will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
ou have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Mary Oliver in Dream Work