Goldenrod by Mary Oliver

On roadsides,⠀

in fall fields,⠀

in rumpy branches,⠀

saffron and orange and pale gold,⠀

in little towers,⠀

soft as mash,⠀

sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerets⠀

and orange butterflies.⠀

I don't suppose⠀

much notice comes of it, except for honey,⠀

and how it heartens the heart with its⠀

blank blaze. ⠀

I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps,⠀

the rocky voids⠀

filled by its dumb dazzle.⠀

For myself,⠀

I was just passing by, when the wind flared⠀

and the blossoms rustled,⠀

and the glittering pandemonium⠀

leaned on me.⠀

I was just minding my own business⠀

when I found myself on their straw hillsides,⠀

citron and butter-colored,⠀

and was happy, and why not?⠀

Are not the difficult labors of our lives⠀

full of dark hours?⠀

And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,⠀

that is better than these light-filled bodies?⠀

All day⠀

on their airy backbones⠀

they toss in the wind,⠀

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,⠀

they rise in a stiff sweetness,⠀

in the pure peace of giving⠀

one's gold away.