What
if you were
a beetle, and a soft wind
and a certain allowance of time
had summoned you
out of your wrapping,
and there you were,
so many legs
hardening,
maybe even
more than one pair of eyes
and the whole world
in front of you?
And what if you had wings
and flew
into the garden,
then fell
into the up-tipped
face
of a white flower,
and what if you had
a sort of mouth,
a lip
to place close
to the skim
of honey
that kept offering itself
what would you think then
of the world
as, night and day,
you were kept there -
oh happy prisoner -
sighing, humming,
roaming
that deep cup?
Mary Oliver
1935
