don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought, but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation. it’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky, and here they are, those white birds with quick wings, sweeping over waves, chattering and plunging, their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes happy as little nails. the years to come—- this is a promise—- will grant you ample time to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought where you seek for shining proofs you think you must have. but nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding, than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world. the flock thickens over the roiling, salt brightness. listen maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world in clasp of attention isn’t the perfect prayer, but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt, is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason, but of pure submission. tell me, what else could beauty be for? and now the tide is at its very crown, the white birds sprinkle down, gathering up the loose silver, rising as if weightless. it isn’t instruction, or a parable. it isn’t for any vanity or ambition except for the one allowed, to stay alive. it’s only a nimble frolic over the waves. and you find, for hours you cannot even remember the questions that weigh so in your mind.
terns, mary oliver (via larissa-yates)
