Beauty

Snowy Night

by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl

in the blue dark

tossed

an indeterminate number

of carefully shaped sounds into

the world, in which,

a quarter of a mile away, I happened

to be standing.

I couldn't tell

which one it was -

the barred or the great-horned

ship of the air -

it was that distant. But, anyway,

aren't there moments

that are better than knowing something,

and sweeter? Snow was falling,

so much like stars

filling the dark trees

that one could easily imagine

its reason for being was nothing more

than prettiness. I suppose

if this were someone else's story

they would have insisted on knowing

whatever is knowable - would have hurried

over the fields

to name it - the owl, I mean.

But it's mine, this poem of the night,

and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter

falling through the air. I love this world,

but not for its answers.

And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name -

and I wish great welcome to the snow,

whatever its severe and comfortless

and beautiful meaning.