Snow Geese

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task 
to ask 
of anything, or anyone,
yet it us ours,
and not by the century of the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound 
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was 
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun 
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do 
sometimes 
to stop time 
when something wonderful has touched us 
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt in the common way,
but delightfully, 
as if delight 
were the most serious thing,
you ever felt.
The geese flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe i will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters 
is that, when i saw them,
I saw them 
through a veil,
secretly, joyfully, clearly. 

-mary oliver