National Poetry Month, Day 22 // There’s a story some preachers like to tell at this time of year. A preacher was taking his family to church one Easter morning, when his young daughter asked, “Dad, are you going to try to explain the resurrection, or are you just going to let people enjoy Easter?”
The deeper the mystery, the less words will suffice, until there’s nothing left to say, nothing to explain. Don’t question it. Just be quiet and steep in the gift. Don’t wonder if there’s a heaven or a life for you after this one or if this one means anything at all. The tiny flower in my back yard doesn’t wonder such things; it simply blooms in the grass. The cricket doesn’t wonder; it simply sings. It’s enough just to live this life completely, just to sing until there’s no song left
“Nothing Is Too Small to Be Wondered About,” by Mary Oliver (1935-2019)
The cricket doesn’t wonder
if there’s a heaven
or, if there is, if there’s room for him.
It’s fall. Romance is over. Still, he sings.
If he can, he enters a house
through the tiniest crack under the door.
Then the house grows colder.
He sings slower and slower.
Then, nothing.
This must mean something, I don’t know what.
But certainly it doesn’t mean
he hasn’t been an excellent cricket
all his life.
