a birthday present

A present of a poem from a friend via email this morning:

"This morning's poem seemed perfect for you and your birthday. So, here it is. I hope you like it too."

"Messenger" by Mary Oliver from Thirst.© BeaconPress. Reprinted with permission.


Messenger

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let
me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients
are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up
clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.