April

This poem was the first thing to fall in front of me this morning, and it says it all. I remember one of my favorite English professors in college teaching us about the tragic flaw of some Shakespeare character, and warning all of us solemnly: "If you cling to life, you lose it." So I am trying not to cling to all the loveliness and goodness around me, trying to enjoy these last days of April like drops of honey. Or, as in the poem below, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

"Snow Geese" by Mary Oliver

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask

of anything, or anyone,

yet it is ours,
and not by century or the year, but by the hours.

One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

so they were, in part at least, golden. I

held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us

as with a match
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,

but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.

The geese
flew on.
I have never
seen them again.

Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.