Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject of Faith by Mary Oliver

Every summer

I listen and look

under the sun's brass and even

into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --

not the pale roots digging down, nor the green

stalks muscling up,

nor the leaves

deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,

nor the shucks, nor the cobs.

And still,

every day,

the leafy fields

grow taller and thicker --

green gowns lofting up in the night,

showered with silk.

And so, every summer,

I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --

I am deaf too

to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --

all of it

happening

beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.

Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.

Let the wind turn in the trees,

and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.

How could I look at anything in this world

and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?

What should I fear?

One morning

in the leafy green ocean

the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body

is sure to be there.