After Mary Oliver-been reading her poetry lately

 AFTER MARY OLIVER

Reading Mary Oliver

on a quiet early June morning,

there’s no fluffy little owl nearby

waiting, watching, hunting,

or lilies for that matter,

swaying in their beautiful imperfection,

with some rebel swans drifting along stilled waters,

no, none of that is here

except one little bird singing outside my window

whistling to his partner or friends

in San Francisco,

and I sit with my coffee

thinking of Mary’s

 “What are you going to do with your one precious life?”

the question seems to echo

but not land, it's just there on the page

floating about

What does it really mean?

To walk

To pray

To be all here

among the noise when the city awakens

when I open my eyes

when I walk out my door.