Mindful
by Mary Oliver (my favorite poet)

Every day
I see or I hear
something
that more or less
kills me with delight,
that leaves me like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It is what I was born for--
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world--
to instruct myself over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant--
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself, how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings as these--
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made out of grass?