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The Secret Language of Dreams
arrived yesterday
in a plain brown mailer

this morning, still dark,
I open it and read the epigraph
because I believe in beginning
at the beginning. But since I
also believe in soft lighting
the words are hard to see.
Consequently
the epigraph, which begins “Dreams
are a conversation with oneself”
emerges in my mind’s eye
a garbled translation into
“Dreams
are a conversation with angels”

Oh, imagine. Imagine yourself.
Imagine me. Imagine us becoming
angels to ourselves.

Sad news. Just read that Mary Oliver died yesterday. Last night, before I knew, I read her poem Invitation to my yoga class. I hope you already know and love her work. If you don’t yet, here are some suggestions to begin. Everything in bold italics is a title or a quote from Mary Oliver. Dive in. Dive deep. And remember to say thank you to whatever or whoever gave our world the gift of Mary Oliver.

Begin with Invitation
or anywhere
Attend to Wild Geese
and absolutely turn to
From The Book Of Time
visit The World I Live In
to marvel at that life, lived.
Read The Poetry Teacher and
any other poem she wrote
about dogs
or about wild foxes or
any other poem she wrote
I could go on for a long, long time
holding up one gleaming shell after another
artifacts, each still damp from that inventive ocean
where Mary Oliver dived deep.
When Death Comes may we be able to say
we spent much time in her company
May we be able to say we learned
the lesson she taught over and over
“for sheer delight
and gratitude…
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world”
Because like our intrepid guide, at the end
“I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

all the traffic here
is off-road—
trees proceed
at their own pace
over the hills

use caution this morning, as
conditions are a wintry mix
thin icing of white on every branch—
no sapling wants to hurry
and risk shaking off that sparkle

be awake, says the traffic report
today, your commute may be
slowed
by beauty

Some days words linger
just out of sight and the job is
to follow—a friendly stalker
with a butterfly net of ink and paper

Other days (this day) words are at a distance—
off adventuring without so much as a postcard
or a telegram to say when they might return

I’m older now
less frantic than before
and though I’ll be happy
(Oh, come on now, words snicker—
you’ll be ecstatic)

and though I’ll be Very Happy
at the flurry of their return
I’m better than I used to be at waiting
and wondering
what souvenirs they’ll bring this time
a sand dollar, or foreign coins,
a phrase book from a language
I’ll never be fluent in

reach, and reach again
for the smart phone, to look up
some knowable thing

a map, a fact, a recipe, a price—
The price for all this is absence
absence of space
of the quiet air
when something is still a mystery
space not spent on finding out
how many miles to our destination?
how big are giant squid?
how much fresh ginger to chop?
what time does it open?

The time it opens is this—
enough time to wonder
as somewhere deep a giant squid glides
if glide is, in fact, the word for what they do

How do I choose?
After all the new notebooks
I’ve bought for the cover art,
shape or color or weight of the paper
How do I shop for this?
My wise friend’s experienced advice
is to document this
with dates and details
the sad and scary story
of how many ways
your mind and memory
are leaving you behind
How do I choose
a notebook for this—
the story of all you’re losing,
of all you’ve already lost?

darkness lifts
once again
bare trees
create their tangled art
branches arch into patterns—
the sky, their canvas
this window, their frame

my father’s thinking fails him
again and again he forgets
while deep in the night,
Snow.
and as it falls, snow
turns the landscape
to a whisper called beautiful
a comfort
while much is taken
the world recalls
its winter work

forgetfulness hides
in the globe on the table
or map on the wall
Today’s lesson starts early—
you learn the world in real time

less than ten days till
boxes reveal their treasures
bought in early fall
by harried mothers counting
Pennies and hopes, fairness and Joy