Some Mary Oliver for the Solstice

Poppies
Mary Oliver

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

Mad Women Do You Love

Soo, I may have been watching the show Mad Men a little. Or a lot. This happened next:


Mad Women
Do you love

Lucy
Brick-a-brack brightened
Smile curved string of pearls
Do you love

Patsy
Swollen voice
Bruised lovely as a tumbling car
Pouring out past the wreckage
Do you love

Or hate
The signs on fountains
Wire and bone
Curled tight as your hair
Around your middle
Back straight
Do you love

Sexton
Or sex
Are your children bird-tongued
Indecipherable as your hands
Cramping for wonder
Do you love

Sylvia
Oven dreams
Crowding the bedside darkness
Anxious with thirst
Or cold
Do you love

The curlers
Tin cans
Books hidden under the bed
Do you love

When everything is either
An outside cardigan
Or an indoor plant
Do you

When you smell Marilyn's cocktails
And lethian fumes in your baby's shampoo
Love

Yourself inside-out
And back again
To you

Love.