I lounge on the grass, that's all.  So
simple.  Then I lie back until I am
inside the cloud that is just above me
but very high, and shaped like a fish.
Or, perhaps not.  Then I enter the place
of not-thinking, not-remembering, not-
wanting.  When the blue jay cries out his
riddle, in his carping voice, I return.
But I go back, the threshold is always 
near.  Over and back, over and back.  Then
I rise.  Maybe I rub my face as though I 
have been asleep.  But I have not been
asleep.  I have been, as I say, inside
the cloud, or, perhaps, the lily floating
on the water.  Then I go back to town,
to my own house, my own life, which has
now become brighter and simpler, some-
where I have never been before.
from Six Recognitions of the Lord, by Mary Oliver
from the compilation Thirst