At the Lake
A fish leaps
like a black pin --
then -- when the starlight
strikes its side --
like a silver pin.
In an instant
the fish's spine
alters the fierce line of rising
and it curls a little --
the head, like scalloped tin,
plunges back,
and it's gone.
This is, I think,
what holiness is:
the natural world,
where every moment is full
of the passion to keep moving.
Inside every mind
there's a hermit's cave
full of light,
full of snow,
full of concentration.
I've knelt there,
and so have you,
hanging on
to what you love,
to what is lovely.
The lake's
shining sheets
don't make a ripple now,
and the stars
are going off to their blue sleep,
but the words are in place --
and the fish leaps, and leaps again
from the black plush of the poem,
that breathless space.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(White Pine)
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