Nothing Fancy

My story, in this my 74th year, is told in this new Mary Oliver poem I just discovered.

I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it
nothing fancy.
Whatever happens, the morning sun glimmers it.

The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open
and becomes a star.

The ants bore into the peony bud and there is the dark
pinpoint prick of sweetness.

As for the stones on the beach, forget it.
Each one could be set in gold.

So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds were singing.
And the aspen trees were shaking the sweetest music out
of their leaves.

And that was followed by guess what, a momentous and beautiful
silence as comes to all of us, in little earfuls if we are not too
hurried to hear it.

As for the spiders, how the dew hangs from their webs
even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing.
So fancy is this world, who knows, they may sing.

So fancy is this world, who knows, maybe the stars sing too,
and the ants the peonies and the warm stones,
so happy to be where they are, on the warm beach,
instead of locked up in gold.
- Phil S.