The things of this world that are kind, and maybe also troubled

I think nearly every winter I've had instagram and my own garden I've posted a photo in appreciation of the plants that flower in that season. Like the winter rose (or hellebore) above. Living in a climate with punishing frosts, it is a marvel to me that they bloom as and when they do.

None of my winter-flowerers are blooming yet, but, much as I have been an appreciator of Mary Oliver's poetry over the years, I came across a poem of hers recently I hadn't read before, and I think they belong in the last stanza.

So here it is (found here):

Heavy

That time I thought I could not go any closer to grief without dying

I went closer, and I did not die. Surely God had his hand in this,

as well as friends. Still, I was bent, and my laughter, as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found. Then said my friend Daniel, (brave even among lions), “It’s not the weight you carry

but how you carry it - books, bricks, grief - it’s all in the way you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not, put it down.” So I went practicing. Have you noticed?

Have you heard the laughter that comes, now and again, out of my startled mouth?

How I linger to admire, admire, admire the things of this world that are kind, and maybe

also troubled - roses in the wind, the sea geese on the steep waves, a love to which there is no reply?

—Mary Oliver