Evidence

Yesterday’s mail brought Evidence, the new volume of Mary Oliver’s poetry. I read through it too quickly, as if I might mine the richest gems without the sweat of digging. But I will go back, and often. Oliver’s work never disappoints. She tunes me in to wonders too easy to forget: the goldfinch’s flash of color reflected in a puddle, the dogged faithfulness of a beating heart, the miracle of trees. She writes of grief and hope, of cheerfulness and dying. These poems, as all her work, are filled with animals. I plan to savor them one at a time, like prayers rising. And so here is another mystery – how can another person’s words speak so truly what is locked away in my own soul?