for Mary Oliver
Writing poems, for me but not necessarily for others, is a way of offering praise to the world. In this book you will find, set among the prose pieces, a few poems. Think of them that way, as little alleluias. They’re not trying to explain anything, as the prose does. They just sit there on the page, and breathe (Mary Oliver).
What a thing to do!
To sit and just breathe.
How novel,
How necessary,
How different from what is expected.
Who needs an explanation
When there’s inspiration
And expiration
And alleluias?