what a cutie pie

Luke

by Mary Oliver

I had a dog
   who loved flowers.
         Briskly she went
              through the fields,

yet paused
   for the honeysuckle
         or the rose,
              her dark head

and her wet nose
   touching
         the face
              of every one

with its petals
   of silk,
         with its fragrance
              rising

into the air
   where the bees,
         their bodies
              heavy with pollen,

hovered—
   and easily
         she adored
              every blossom,

not in the serious,
   careful way
         that we choose
              this blossom or that blossom—

the way we praise or don't praise—
   the way we love
         or don't love—
              but the way

we long to be—
   that happy
         in the heaven of earth—
              that wild, that loving.