The Fish

I caught a little fish, a silvery one so small, it flung about, you could hardly catch it, so I stepped out, dipped down into the water’s warmth, poured the sea on my hands, begging it to teach me, to lend a smile, until softly, like the back of a hand, the fish swam free.

Still shimmering, it would thrash and chatter in the water, and I felt a longing, a deep will, a desire to pull it close. But its simple bright scales and its blue fishy bands made me pause: those colors still sing to me today. I reached out but it slipped away, as I brought all the coolness of the water to my soul.

What is it inside this shaking world of ours, holding each moment between lavish light, a stony tenderness, yet all around me—the brilliant fish, then going, in a ring around the pool, bowing out deeper? I have both love and loss, or have I? It is simple enough, to know, when I go down into the waves, to slither below, all things are true. I too swim in the air, one with the sun, a wild illumination, all things left, whoever swims home.

In the end, it is you, the little fish, you live meanwhile, who brings me to presence. The sound is ever here, yearning, yet ours, if only we can embrace it and linger in the waters still.

Oh, little fish, wait, let me learn you!

• Mary Oliver