I have loved Mary Oliver’s poetry since I stumbled upon “White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field,” printed on the back of the order of service at my friend Emily’s funeral. I bought my first Oliver collection the next day.
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.