Goldenrod
By Mary Oliver
On roadsides,
 in fall fields,
     in rumpy bunches,
         saffron and orange and pale gold,Â
in little towers,
 soft as mash,
     sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
         full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerletsÂ
and orange butterflies.
 I don’t suppose
     much notice comes of it, except for honey,
          and how it heartens the heart with itsÂ
blank blaze.
 I don’t suppose anything loves it, except, perhaps,
     the rocky voids
         filled by its dumb dazzle.Â
For myself,
 I was just passing by, when the wind flared
     and the blossoms rustled,
         and the glittering pandemoniumÂ
leaned on me.
 I was just minding my own business
     when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
         citron and butter-colored,Â
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,Â
that is better than these light-filled bodies?
 All day
      on their airy backbones
          they toss in the wind,Â
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.
