my son sent me a message
with the announcement,
knowing how much I love her words,
so much that Wild Geese holds forth
displayed near the table where we share meals
like a prayer that has blessed our home
year after year since we moved to Vermont.
Today I think Mary
would ask us to enjoy popcorn and bacon
and the musty creak of the birch in the back yard
while the doe and her yearlings munch to the tops
of my raspberry canes in January.
Perhaps a cup of ginger tea will soothe me tomorrow.
Perhaps if the murder of crows
that visited me last year returns to the white pines near the house,
or the fox and possum that live under the porch stop crying,
or the she-bear topples my bird feeders,
I might remember all the ways
Nature and Spirit are with me on this path
even when Mary has flown away with a simple whirr
from her body.
I drop to my knees,
good enough
and repenting,
praying in gratitude
for this new dead poet.
She is my friend
with each page I turn,
marveling at all the ways
my heart and mind open
to the simple turns
where she always guides me
to God.
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