To Mary Oliver

 

You died today, some

time, waking early

to give your body

 

back to the earth as the earth

gave you your mind. Outside

a girl is walking with Whitman

 

under her arm. She does not want

to go inside, to misremember

the loving she finds

 

in the eyes behind photographs

in the bears and the birds

in the women who dance

 

the Daphne, breathe into the trees.

You know trees

are not passive,

 

crickets are not signs

of silence, petals can pray.

Your footsteps leave

 

cool hues on the warming

earth, reminding the sugary grin

of sand and oats, slurring

 

out our secret: living is

constant revival. I listen

for your invisible

 

hand, digging up the bent

bark and I feel safe,

suddenly more aware

 

I have a body. To you,

every hole is not

a burial. I imagine you,

 

winged-back, swan-woman,

walking down from the sky,

neck too long and awkward

 

to be anything but a telescope

for the feldspar and the

fields of fur and fire

 

you sleep in, grateful to

the yellow grasses, blinking

beside the animals.

 

Who, now, is going

to observe the earth,

hear the tree

 

falling

and rebuild it

across the swamp?

 

H.E. Riddleton

 

H.E. Riddleton, whose life is synonymous with writing, is an autistic poetess, functioning as a passionate English Major and a devoted rambler on her infinitely loved Sylvia (Plath). She has been published in TCC South Script, The Ibis Head Review, The Visitant, The Light Ekphrastic, and S/tick magazine.

© 2019