Spring.

                                      Violets have many leaves, each one so earnestly
                                      heart-shaped that you could not imagine the plants have
                                      thought of anything else to do. But they have: they make
                                      blossoms, which rise yellow or violet, in multitudes, the
                                      violet ones with violet-colored spurs. They like
                                      dampness, they like hillsides and are comfortable also
                                      in the shady woods. They like to be alone, or congregated
                                      together in the grass, looking up as you pass by, saying
                                      Hello, Hello. And what else do you imagine
                                      they might do? Sing? I don’t think so, I suspect
                                      they know when any further ambition would be
                                      unseemly. So all their time is used up in happiness––
                                      in becoming the best they can be
                                      for the greater glory of God.
                                      In fact, they know it’s okay to rest for the rest
                                      of your life just saying: Thank you. Oh cast of thousands,
                                      as are the stars of heaven, Thank you.
                                                                                                -Mary Oliver