quickly found for myself two such blessings — the natural world, and the world of writing: literature. These were the gates through which I vanished … - Mary Oliver

I had a dog
who loved flowers.
Briskly she went
through the fields,

yet paused
for the honeysuckle
or the rose,
her dark head

and her wet nose
touching
the face
of every one

with its petals
of silk,
with its fragrance
rising

into the air
where the bees,
their bodies
heavy with pollen,

hovered — and easily
she adored
every blossom,

not in the serious,
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that blossom — the way we praise or don’t praise — the way we love
or don’t love — but the way

we long to be — that happy
in the heaven of earth — that wild, that loving.

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

I am burdened with anxiety. Anxiety for the lamb with his bitter future, anxiety for my own body, and, not least, anxiety for my own soul. You can fool a lot of yourself but you can’t fool the soul. That worrier.