And then some.

I turn to Mary Oliver’s poetry a lot, now that I’m not in school and school no longer reminds me how to read. School now reminds me of why I didn’t break the rules sooner. Maybe one day I can write again.

Here is a poem of hers, for those of us who run because we cannot fly.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean –
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down –
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Many times she takes the words out of my heart. Then I have an eagerness to be clouted by poetry, and in the next second equally let down by poetry. This ebb is not uncertain. It is certainty that frightens me.

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