@reverecurrent / reverecurrent.tumblr.com

Hand on my heart. Hand on my stupid heart.
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May, and among the miles of leafing, blossoms storm out of the darkness-windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees dive into them and I too, to gather their spiritual honey. Mute and meek, yet theirs is the deepest certainty that this existence too this sense of well-being, the flourishing of the physical body—rides near the hub of the miracle that everything is a part of, is as good as a poem or a prayer, can also make luminous any dark place on earth.

Mary Oliver, from "May"