Thoughtful Thursdays

In matter of the arts, The Baroness can't explain why she likes things. She just does. It's a truly visceral experience. A quality of light, a phrase, a word. I'm sure you are the same. Unless you're an English major - then you might have a enviable blend of the visceral and the cerebral. But, alas, this is not me, and that's quite alright too.

Today, a piece from Mary Oliver. I heard another one of her poems read at the memorial service of an amazing lady, and she's kind of stuck with me ever since. Plus, who can't appreciate a poem with "frisky" in it? Enjoy.

Where Does that Dance Begin, and Where Does it End?

Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
in your own yard?
Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?

Mary Oliver