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The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan,
and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself
out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar
out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws
back and forth instead of
up and down—
who is gazing around with her
enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms
and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open,
and floats away.
I don't know exactly
what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
how to fall down into the grass,
how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing
all day.
Tell me,
what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last,
and too soon?
Tell me,
what is it you plan to do
with your one wild
and precious life?

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