Lucretius just presents this marvelous and important idea that what we are made of will make something else, which to me is very important. There is no nothingness — with these little atoms that run around too little for us to see. But, put together, they make something. And that to me is a miracle. Where it came from, I don’t know. But it’s a miracle, and I think it’s enough to keep a person afloat.
Mary Oliver in an interview with Krista Tippet of On Being.
I was listening to On Being with Krista Tippet, an old podcast of an interview with Mary Oliver from 2015. The episode repeated the week of Mary Oliver’s death in January of this year. Listening to Mary Oliver makes me feel I am in the presence of a wise yogi.
The practice of writing poetry, I am learning, is an exercise in mindfulness. To be open to the universe of words and to put them down on a page is a gift. Then there is the renewing of the words as you revise, reorder, read aloud to a writing group, and go at it all again.
This poem came from all this listening and doing the work of the morning.
Residing
If we could make of everything
a sacred movement–Digging in the deep mud
watching the earthworm squirm.Painting on of pale eyeshadow,
touching my face with gentleness.The cat is purring a prayer.
Wind chimes are ringing a hymn,And here I am,
lifting my coffee mug to my lipsEven the cicadas are laughing.
Margaret Simon, draft 2019
Reflections on the Teche 
Classic Margaret…beautiful. The sacred of what’s simple. I raise my coffee cup from a college campus in response
Your poem is simply lovely, Margaret. I can just hear those wind chimes — so calming.
This is what we live to do, Margaret. What a lovely and poignant poem, from Oliver’s words to yours will make a thoughtful day for me. “The cat is purring a prayer.” Thank you!
Margaret, this is the kind of poem I aim to write. I love your tapestry of small moments, the simple act of being, the noticing of the gifts of nature, the attention to carefully crafted language: cats purring prayers (how true), laughing cicadas, chimes playing a hymn and you sipping coffee. Mary Olive gave us gifts. Urged us in her poems to be alive, to wonder and notice. And you do just that. What a way to start my day. Thank you. (I can’t believe you think it’s still a draft, but I understand.) I am a Mary Oliver and Margaret Simon fan. I can’t wait for your next book.
* Oliver not Olive. Typo alert!
Thanks, Janet, for your high praise. Mary Oliver is a great mentor for noticing and noting. The small moments gave me this poem. I did work on it some, but I hesitate to call it done. Draft keeps it open for change. Your support means a lot.
That eye shadow is such an intimate moment in this poem, Margaret. The job of poetry, often, is to call attention to the small miracles. They all add up to being alive and aware.
Ahhh, gorgeous, Margaret! I feel like I’m there at your table, breathing in the moment. Listening to the cat, the chimes, and those wonderful laughing cicadas.
Just lovely, Margaret. Like Michelle said, I feel like I’m right there with you! Thanks, also, for sharing the Mary Oliver interview. I’ll be sure to check it out.
I adore that episode of On Being. Sigh. And what a stunning poem–I especially love:
The cat is purring a prayer.
Wind chimes are ringing a hymn,
xoxo
Following up on what Laura said above about the importance of noticing the smaller things, your last line sums that up beautifully, “Even the cicadas are laughing.” And thanks for sharing the Mary Oliver podcast also.
Margaret, you’ve made all of these everyday activities sacred in your words. It’s lovley.
Lovely, Margaret. There is such a sense of peach from being in the moment that your poems reflects.
I agree that writing is a kind of mindfulness. It’s one thing I love about it! This is a lovely poem. Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com
I love this Margaret! Simply profound.
That this poem has “sacred” and “cicadas” in it send my heart soaring — the song of cicadas is a sacred sound to me. Wanted you to know I got Bayou Song and I LOVE IT – both your poetry and your invitation throughout to write, draw, create. It’s a joy, Margaret.