Sometimes even Mary Oliver has to get a little firm. The Poet With His Face in His Hands You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn’t need any more of that sound….
Mary Oliver
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A boxwood blooms in my yard this November. Delicate white flowers rise out of its green depths. What wonder is this? On closer examination, it appears that a vine has grown up among the holes in the damaged boxwood. I…
My father’s spirit left his body in a darkened room six weeks ago. On the wings of his last breath, it ascended – a small cloud of color and energy. Believing, disbelieving – that is what my eyes saw….
Nearly a month without rain in Nashville, the trees in their autumn glory look thirsty. My pups stir up a small dust storm each time they go out, pups and dust both finding their way back into the house. The…
Dear Bacon Friends – I can’t run the interview planned for this morning due to a minor technical problem, but I’m happy to share a couple of beautiful poems from Mary Oliver’s collection A Thousand Mornings. These poems ask (me)…
Pepper and I sat outside for a while after the rain passed. I scattered safflower seeds close by and wondered how brave the finches and cardinals might get. (They kept their distance. Ahhh, but they looked!) Pepper and I thought…
The grass in my yard crunches underfoot, yellow as straw in some places. Pepper rouses small tornadoes of dust as she chases the squirrels. Yet the trees remain mostly green heading into October – a dry green, a stubborn green…
Have you heard? Mary Oliver has died. The best beloved poet of our time? Yes. Maybe. But I’m sure – not only in my mind. She walked in beauty, like the night.
I worry myself to death over things I didn’t say quite right – in a meeting, at a party, to a friend. This is a terrible idea, sort of like having that third Krispy Kreme. But sometimes you can’t…