For M.O.

by Zoë Wilson

I found the ashes of Mary Oliver in my inbox
When Death Comes – a eulogy.
her words
slow my pulse

and guide the fly to the sill,
here – it stops.
Outside my window, oak leaves blend with mud,
brittle and encased in cold.
I hold my breath for snow
but it clings heavy to the roofless sky
until the grey morning passes
and full of adjectives.
Her words are as intimate
as smell
and just as faithful.
now rain smells like iron and
the wild geese fly home.

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