The Last Marigold

Thanks to our 40-some-odd days without rain, my sweet mother's garden has been so beautifully in bloom, and the farmer's market tents are all overflowing with dahlias and gladiolas and sunflowers. It seems like that's the only thing I've been able to take pictures of, and I can't resist.

Today is another one of those rare sundays where I've been allowed to sleep in, wake up slowly on the couch and drink enough coffee to satisfy my unbelievable cravings. The skies have finally faded into the traditional September gray outside my window, but I think I've been craving a little rain anyway so I'm not too disappointed.

What I am a little bit disappointed about is how many things I thought I would get done this summer that I haven't even come close to achieving. Paintings and poem-writing and garden building...projects that are all hanging around in so many bits and pieces that I'd love to put together but can't seem to motivate myself to do in the forty minutes between coming home from work and falling exhaustedly into bed.

Anyway, the real purpose of this post is to savor one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems, so here it is:

Poppies by Mary Oliver

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward--
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight--

and what are you going to do--
what can you do
about it--
deep, blue night?