Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life...
an empty basket; you put your life into it
and make something out of that.
— Mary Oliver (1935 – 2019)
I don’t know what to say to you
now that you’re gone.
Never did I assume we’d meet, yet
your presence was a warm blanket
on a cold night, your voice a chorus
of bells dancing lightly across
a snowy morning. When I forgot
the perfection of the everyday,
I turned to you. Your words
offered the warmth of a familiar
embrace, the companionship of
a wise friend. You were inscrutable.
Inimitable. Cheerfully, delightfully
unattainable. Out of sight,
you were often out of mind.
And then, like spring’s first crocus,
there you’d be, delighting me
all over again, reminding me of all
the reasons why this world is
worth the pain, worth living in,
worth dying for. And so, you did.
And, now that you are gone,
I don’t know what to say anymore.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Claude Monet, The Magpie
via Wikimedia Commons
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