last night in the fields i lay down in the darkness to think about death, but instead i fell asleep, as if in a vast and sloping room filled with those white flowers that open all summer, sticky and untidy, in the warm fields. when i woke the morning light was just slipping in front of the stars, and i was covered with blossoms. i don’t know how it happened— i don’t know if my body went diving down under the sugary vines in some sleep-sharpened affinity with the depths, or whether that green energy rose like a wave and curled over me, claiming me in its husky arms. i pushed them away, but i didn’t rise. never in my life had i felt so plush, or so slippery, or so resplendently empty. never in my life had i felt myself so near that porous line where my own body was done with and the roots and the stems and the flowers began.
mary oliver, white flowers
