Golden shovel from Mary Oliver’s “Why I Wake Early”

When I wake and the fog curls a hello,
burrows me in its gray cape the sun
will later shred like bramble-tears, I enjoy the quiet in
that moment. The absolute stillness my
body and mind can hold. A breath of stars on my face,

a caress that’s more of a goodbye than hello
as the sun peers over the plateau where you
hid when your father died. He who
confused you with love and anger and will no longer make
sweet music for your mother. It’s bittersweet, the
fog that inhabits the night but vanishes in the light of morning.