One of my wishes for this year is to write more poetry.  Puzzlingly, I have been inclined to believe that poetry should be devoted to intensely earnest themes like war or pain or unrequited love.  (I’m not sure where I got that idea because many of my favorite poets are fun and irreverent.) Anyway, (thankfully), I spent a whole week-end guzzling Mary Oliver’s writing and realised (obviously) that her amazing legacy is all about nature. And simple stuff like grass and geese and insects and that there is in fact no need to wait for war (although that seems imminent). And then I came across Mary’s instructions for living, and I resolved to follow them in my writing: “Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.” Simple.

DANDELIONS

I was running home across the faint foot-path that dissects a grassy field

the day after the rain

When I emerged from a daydream to notice

it was no longer a field of grass

but now a field of tiny yellow heads

balanced on tender stems

and I could have sworn they weren’t here yesterday

this field of dandelions

I had to tread with utmost care

not to behead or trample them

as they stood about, so cheerfully

nodding their jaunty yellow crowns

And once I noticed them in my running field

I suddenly saw them everywhere

On broken pavements, in vacant lots, shooting up between cracks of tar and concrete

So merry, so upbeat and gallant

so resilient

Their bold good humour undaunted by their brevity

though they’ll be gone tomorrow

Or soon enough

And some more distinguished flower may ask:

“Who are you to bloom so audaciously, given your humble station?

Afterall, you’re classified as weeds!”

And undismayed the dandelions replied, (smiling all the while):

“Who are we not to?”