Philosophy / Wisdom / Consciousness
Americ Azevedo & Friends
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The Poet Visits the Museum of Fine ArtsBy Mary OliverFor a long time I was not even in this world , yet every summerevery rose opened in perfect sweetness and lived in gracious repose,in its own exotic fragrance, in its huge willingness to give something, from its small self, to the entirety of the world.I think of them, thousands upon thousands, in many lands, whenever summer came to them, risingout of the patience of patience, to leaf and bud and look up into the blue sky or, with thanks,into the rain that would feed their thirsty roots latched into the earth---sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia, what did it matter, the answer was simply to rise in joyfulness, all their days.Have I found any better teaching? Not ever, not yet. Last week I saw my first Botticelli and almost fainted.and if I could I would paint like that but am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs about roses: teachers, also, of the ways toward thanks, and praise.
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