I haven’t foisted any Mary Oliver on you for quite a while. I don’t exactly know what it is about her over other poets, but she is the one I return to time and again.
How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out
The swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work.
You can read the entire poem here.