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,

paperweights

brittle and encased in cold.

I hold my breath for snow

but it clings heavy to the roofless sky

until the grey morning passes

heavy

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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