A poem I wrote for Mary Oliver
When a poet dies, her words
brighten & fall like leaves
We must run & gather them,
press them in books
Iron them between wax,
preserve, but also reuse
Rush to make poems of our own
so we are not alone here for long
Write, quickly, write
We must all become poets.
~unpublished, for Mary Oliver
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Thank God not a housing move this time
You think I have a crowbar in my heart?
Two Substacks, two books, and two practices