For Mary Oliver

There are teachers
who make a home
in your mouth,
teachers whose words
fly inside thoughts
before you make them,
whose soft hands,
or so you imagine,
hold gently your cheeks
as you drive
toward a different horizon,
perhaps terrified,
and feeling alone,
which of course you never were,
since that day long ago
when white nests
of wild feathers, she wove
in your pockets.

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2 thoughts on “For Mary Oliver

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