by Mary Oliver
The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a
secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me.
But the disciples slept.
The cricket has such
splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you
noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it
ever sleeps.
Jesus said, wait with me.
And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself
into a silver tree, and didn’t move,
maybe,the lake far away,
where once he walked as on a
blue pavement, lay still
and waited, wild awake.
Oh the dear bodies,
slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they
must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing
this too
must be a part of the
story.
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