Night after night
darkness
enters the face
of the lily
which, lightly,
closes its five walls
around itself,
and its purse
of honey,
and its fragrance,
and is content
to stand there
in the garden,
not quite sleeping,
and, maybe,
saying in lily language
some small words
we cant hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere,
its lips
are so secret,
its tongue
is so hidden
or, maybe,
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience
of vegetables
and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon
becomes the golden sun
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isnt it,
the perfect prayer?
The Lily
written byMary Oliver
© Mary Oliver