Poetry Friday

In reading Mary Oliver's American Primitive, I've come across great poems called "Fall Song" and "Cold Poem." It being spring, I just can't post those right now. Great as they are, that'll have to wait until October. But I jumped ahead to a poem called "Spring," and this is what I found:

I lift my face to the pale flowers
of the rain. They're soft as linen,
clean as holy water. Meanwhile
my dog runs off, noses down packed leaves
into damp, mysterious tunnels.
He says the smells are rising now
stiff and lively; he says the beasts
are waking up now full of oil,
sleep sweat, tag-ends of dreams. The rain
rubs its shining hands all over me.
My dog returns and barks fiercely, he says
each secret body is the richest advisor,
deep in the black earth such fuming
nuggets of joy!