Roses

by Mary Oliver

Everyone now and again wonders about
those questions that have no ready
answer: first cause, God’s existence,
what happens when the curtain goes
down and nothing stops it, not kissing
not going to the mall, not the Super
Bowl.

“Wild roses,” I said to them one morning.
“Do you have the answers? And if you do,
would you tell me?”

The roses laughed softly. “Forgive us,”
they said. “But as you can see, we are
just now entirely busy being roses.”

 

Poetry Table

PoemAuthor
The InvitationOriah Mountain Dreamer
The Guest HouseRumi
The Way It IsWilliam Stafford
The JourneyMary Oliver
Wild GeeseMary Oliver
RosesMary Oliver
The Man in the GlassPeter Dale Wimbrow Sr.
Earth, isn't this what you want?Rainer Maria Rilke
The Idea of Order at Key WestWallace Stevens