The Rapture

All summer

I wandered the fields

that were thickening every morning,

every rainfall,

with weeds and blossoms,

with the long loops

of the shimmering,

and the extravagant-

pale as flames they rose

and fell back,

replete and beautiful-

that was all there was-

and I too

once or twice,

at least,

felt myself rising,

my boots

touching suddenly the tops of the weeds,

the blue and silky air-

listen,

passion did it,

called me forth,

addled me,

stripped me clean

then covered me with the cloth of happiness-

I think there is no other prize,

only rapture the gleaming,

rapture the illogical the weightless-

whether it be for the perfect shapeliness

of something you love-

like an old German song-

or of someone-

or the dark floss of the earth itself,

heavy and electric.

At the edge of sweet sanity open such wild,

blind wings.

(Mary Oliver)