Imagine by Mary Oliver

I don’t care for adjectives, yet the world
fills me with them.
And even beyond what I see, I imagine more.

Seeing, for example, with understanding,
or with acceptance and humility and
without understanding,
into the heart of the bristly, locked-in worm
just as it’s becoming what we call the luna,
that green tissue-winged, strange, graceful,
fluttering thing.

Will death allow such transportation of the eye?
Will we see then into the breaking open
of the kernel of corn,
the sprout plunging upward through damp clod
and into the sun?

Well, we will all find out, each of us.
And what would we be, beyond the yardstick,
beyond supper and dollars,
if we were not filled with such wondering?

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