Mary Oliver,
lately I’ve
been searching
your lines in
Why I Wake Early
for reasons to rise
when morning sun
strokes hills with
color almost a sound
it’s so bright
Mary,
you begin
a conversation with
Hello, you who made the morning
honor the you
who spreads herself
even on faces of weary
you call miserable.
Mary,
who is you?
What is her shape?
Stay with me Mary, please!
You write that you—
keeps us from ever-darkness
has great hands of warmth
Mary,
does she nudge
you to gaze
into the faces of the tulips?
into the windows of the crotchety?
or Mary, do you—you,
invite your own eyes
to notice nodding morning glories
with unblinking intensity?
Are you really singing
good morning, good morning, good morning
to words you soon fashion into verses that
hold us in your great hand of light?
