Poem: “The Lily” by Mary Oliver (American, 1935-2019)

 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 can’t 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, isn’t it, 

the perfect prayer?