The man who has many answers
is often found
in the theaters of information
where he offers, graciously,
his deep findings.

While the man who has only questions,
to comfort himself, makes music.

-- Mary Oliver

. . . you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

-- Mary Oliver

I don't really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree.  I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible.  I can sit
on the top of the dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned.  I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.

-- Mary Oliver

 . . . The little sparrow
with the pink beak
calls out, over and over, so simply -- not to me
but to the whole world.  All afternoon
I grow wiser, listening to him,
soft, small, nameless fellow at the top of some weed,
enjoying his life.  If you can sing, do it.  If not,

even silence can feel, to the world, like happiness,
like praise,
from the pool of shade you have found beside the everlasting.

-- Mary Oliver

I believe in kindness.  Also in mischief.  Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.

-- Mary Oliver