Why I Wake Early

by Mary Oliver

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking. Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around as though with your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some shining coil of wind, or a few leaves from any old tree— they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth. Everything in the world comes. At least, ...

The old creek began to sing in my ears

as it rolled along, like the hair of spring, and the young girl I used to be heard it also, as she came swinging into the woods, truant from everything as usual except the clear globe of the day, and its beautiful details.

All I know is, there was a light that lingered, for hours, under her eyelids—that made a difference when she went back to a difficult house, at the end of the day.

Listen, once again,

as again, and again, we are given this single wisdom: to know

our world is to be busy all day long with happiness.

I live in the open mindedness of not knowing enough about anything. It was beautiful.

Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.