Uprooted

On not being Mary Oliver

I think of her way with words
the slow, steady shuffle of her gait
And feel here coming towards me the way
a loved one would meet you half way down the path.
I imagine she wears a well washed shirt, loose pants
and a pair of sandals.
“Mary” I ask “Does this get any easier?”
She does not speak but instead raises her eyebrows in question.
“Mary” I ask “Will it all be alright?”
Her gaze is resting on the doe in front of us,
who is laying as a dog would near a fireplace
her head moving slightly and sniffing at the what the breeze brings
beyond her more of her family sit, as relaxed as a living room.
And in the silence of watching, the hurt subsides and I become a new thing:
curious.
And from this curiosity comes great wonder and awe.
I am no great wordsmith, nor am I saintly
but I do have an appreciate for all the things around me great and small
the leaves dancing off the November trees
the kitten stretched out like a king
the small moments of brisk cold and a hot bath.
I do what she asked, though I am not her:
I pay attention. I am astonished. I tell about it.

One thought on “On not being Mary Oliver

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