After Her Death
by Mary Oliver
I am trying to find the lesson
for tomorrow. Matthew something.
Which lectionary? I have not
forgotten the Way, but, a little,
the way to the Way. The trees keep whispering
peace, peace, and the birds
in the shallows are full of the
bodies of small fish and are
content. They open their wings
so easily, and fly. So. It is still
I open the book
which the strange, difficult, beautiful church
has given me. To Matthew. Anywhere.
You can find this poem in Thirst.