Just a minute

"Just a minute," said a voice in the weeds.

So I stood still

in the day's exquisite early morning light

and so I didn't crush with my great feet

any small or unusual thing just happening to pass by

where I was passing by

on my way to the blueberry fields,

and maybe it was the toad

and maybe it was the June beetle

and maybe it was the pink and tender worm

who does his work without limbs or eyes

and does it well

or maybe it was the walking stick, still frail

and walking humbly by, looking for a tree,

or maybe, like Blake's wondrous meeting, it was

the elves, carrying one of their own

on a rose-petal coffin away, away

into the deep grasses. After awhile

the quaintest voice said, "Thank you." And then there was silence.

For the rest, I would keep you wondering."

-- Mary Oliver