The Day Mary Oliver Died

On the day Mary Oliver died
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.

After A Thirteen Hour Day

The stillness is harsh and thick
after a long day in the office
blustering around the slippery edges
of balancing priorities.

This is a time skinny with needs
and strikes my panicked mind
with too much to do
and not enough of anything
to make it easy.

There is frostbite on the toes
of my morning meditations
that have often been the hearty relief
for this darkness of rationed breathing.

My teeth chatter
under the covers.
I cannot get the heat to rise
from cold ashes
and the wind
is still howling
for more.

Until Night Comes

I had forgotten
what it was like to be alone
and bristle at the prospect
of giving up that freedom.

It is a memory tingling at the edges of my lips
like a shoulder that aches before the rain
that makes me draw the afghan of amnesia close
and rock in a chair until the night comes.

I am done with mystery
that leaves me regretting asking the questions.
I would rather drop my yeses with a clatter
onto the floor and walk away
than give up everything
for almost nothing myself.

Tomorrow when I wake

I will gasp at the thought

that I've given up words that matter

and laughter until I am breathless

and taking in the smell of juniper

and the true nature of white pine.

Dreaming of Going Home

In the dream that I dream of some sort of peace
I am barefoot and on the beach in Maine
before the crowds fraught with human noises
and where I can explore the horizon alone.

In the dream I dream of lovely silence
I sequester myself with the sand
and the times between light and darkness,
neither frightened, nor fraught with distractions
and too much to do stiffening in my neck and shoulders.

Dreaming of the sea
I begin to pantomime gulls
and the waves.  No words are necessary
for this kind of love.  I dance free of my human form
and  know what it is to be like incense rising in the mist
just long enough to hear the answer to my prayers.

The Wrinkle

The wrinkle starts slowly
just under the surface of the skin.
Near the eye a splinter of frightened flesh
loses hold on the plumpness
we call youth.

If we walk briskly into the quietude
of our true age, perhaps we will be christened
with purpose and hope for a bright face
and a smile that shows the luxury of joy
in the abundance of lines that have been worn
like weathered stone broken apart
by the loving forces
of rain, wind, and the shaking of seasons
all the way to oblivion
and the hand of God
upon your shoulder
telling you it is time
to come home.