The Good Pud Day

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
– Mary Oliver

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The Good Pud Day

Who made the whorl?
Who made the toast, and the tea cake?
Who made the please pudding?
This please pudding, I mean –
the one that has pleased itself onto my plate,
the one that is forking “like-me” into my mouth,
that is wobbling me fat and forth instead of tight and slim –
that is cream crimed with amorphous and overinflated size.
Now it plies lies, calorifically noshes my face.
Now it gratifies, waves goodbyes to what I weigh.
I don’t know exactly what a dessert is.
I do know how to accept exception, how to belly down
into a pud, how to revel in a pud,
how to be bone idle and gross, how to bloat through my meals,
which is what I’ve been stewing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have sponged?
Doesn’t every puddy expire so fast, all too spooned?
Tell me, what is it you aspire to chew
With your plate piled in sticky slice?
– Mary Golloper

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