a response to “Morning Poem” by Mary Oliver
Every night
the world
is unmade.
Under the white
rain of the moon,
the woven
nests of daytime
turn to sticks again
and scatter themselves across the yard —
the mowed lawns sprout
with moonflower vines
and the softly winking stars
of evening primrose.
If it is in your power
to be quiet
you will melt down into the earth,
to its silent caves, cold and damp,
where you’ll join again
with Eden clay.
And if your soul wearies
of saying prayers
louder than thunder —
if it’s all you can do
to whisper God’s name —
there is still
somewhere high above you
a heaven complete, needing
nothing from your tongue.
Each rising moon
is a faith given and received
easily
every night
whether or not
you dared to be quiet,
whether or not
you ever spoke His name.