How can I hope to be friends

with the hard white stars

whose flaring and hissing are not speech

but a pure radiance?

How can I hope to be friends

with the yawning spaces between them

where nothing, ever, is spoken?

Tonight, at the edge of the field,

I stood very still, and looked up,

and tried to be empty of words.

What joy was it, that almost found me?

What amiable peace?

What can we do

but keep on breathing in and out

modest and willing, and in our places?

Even as now.

—Excerpts from “stars” by Mary Oliver.

Bhujangāsana II. Cobra with no arms