I adore this poem for the days of Lughnasadh, and so I am encoring my posting of it from years past. With it, I send you blessings of faith, and abundant, miraculous harvests; and most of all, the grace to know them.
Love and thanksgiving.
Even now. Especially now.
Little Summer Poem
Touching the Subject of Faith
by Mary Oliver
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear
anything, I can’t see anything —
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,
nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker —
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.
And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing —
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,
the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet —
all of it
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.
And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt
swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.
(Remember that poetry is the oldest form spellcraft. Poems are meant to be read aloud if you wish to taste their magick. And for a more traditional discussion of Lughnasadh, you can visit here).