I Met Mary Oliver the Other Day

I met Mary Oliver the other day, next to Starbucks in that store where softcovers surely number well into the mid-to-high six digits. Ours was a chance encounter, as neither of us would travel in any of the same circles and my disparate world is far from hers. There was no particular reason why I should pause on my worn path to Real Estate, the Journal tucked too close to my heart. or why her poems, selected me to stop and stray, but life seems capricious that way or in this case, perhaps just proof of a merciful God who knew I had forgotten the frog’s slide off a lily pad and the quiet undulating ripple his first stroke made that day near a content summer bank of my parents’ old mill pond or that 12-year old’s simple joy under a clear crystalline night setting up his new telescope and peering into the splendor of heaven, all that lost time not knowing or frankly even caring, exactly how many light years exist between us and Sirius. And as I slowly turned her pages she loaned me her prism to see anew wild geese and goldenrod, egrets and forgotten war heroes and the truth of holding on and letting go, when deep down this delightful tingle fluttered up quite unexpectedly before the corners of my mouth turned up in a smile I could not stop Someday, I’d like to meet Ms. Oliver to thank her for so many generous gifts. In the meantime, I will very carefully, but probably clumsily, untie the ribbons of each precious gift not wanting to be certain of its contents too soon.