June Poetry Goldenrod by Mary Oliver

On roadsides, 
in fall fields, 
in rumpy bunches, 
saffron and orange and pale gold, 
in little towers, 
soft as mash, 
sneeze- bringers and seed- bearers, 
full of bees and yellow beads 
and perfect flowerlets 
and orange butterflies. 
I don’t suppose much notice comes of it,
    except for honey, 
        and how it heartens the heart with its blank blaze.

 I don’t suppose anything loves it except, 
     perhaps,
          the rocky voids filled by its dumb dazzle. 

For myself, 
     I was just passing by, 
          when the wind flared 
               and the blossoms rustled,
 and the glittering pandemonium leaned on me. 

I was just minding my own business 
     when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
           citron and butter- colored, 
               and was happy, 
 and why not? 

Are not the difficult labors of our lives 
      full of dark hours? 

And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,
     that is better than these light- filled bodies? 

All day on their airy backbones
      they toss in the wind,
           they bend as though it was
                natural and godly to bend,
           they rise in a stiff sweetness, 
in the pure peace of giving one’s gold away.