at the edge of sweet sanity open such wild, blind wings

All summer 

I wandered the fields 

that were thickening 

every morning, 

 

every rainfall, 

with weeds and blossoms, 

with the long loops 

of the shimmering, and the extravagant— 

 

pale as flames they rose 

and fell back, 

replete and beautiful— 

that was all there was— 

 

 

and I too 

once or twice, at least, 

felt myself rising, 

my boots 

 

touching suddenly the tops of the weeds, 

the blue and silky air— 

listen, 

passion did it, 

 

called me forth, 

addled me, 

stripped me clean 

then covered me with the cloth of happiness— 

 

I think there is no other prize, 

only rapture the gleaming, 

rapture the illogical the weightless— 

 

whether it be for the perfect shapeliness 

of something you love— 

like an old German song— 

or of someone— 

 

or the dark floss of the earth itself, 

heavy and electric. 

At the edge of sweet sanity open 

such wild, blind wings. 

 

[Mary Oliver {1935-2019} 'The Rapture', from West Wind]