I look at the letter again,
And the name of the next poet brings a smile to my face.
It is Mary Oliver,
Writing.
I too have known loneliness.
I too have known what it is to feel misunderstood,
Rejected,
And suddenly not at all beautiful.
O Mother Earth,
Your comfort is great.
Your arms never withhold.
It has saved my life to know this.
Your rivers flowing,
Your roses opening in the morning,
Motions of tenderness.
She writes in wild geese,
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees.
Or a hundred miles through the desert,
Repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair,
Yours,
And I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on,
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes,
Over the prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese,
High in the clean blue air,
Are heading home again.
Whoever you are,
No matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls to you like the wild geese,
Harsh and exciting,
Over and over,
Announcing your place in the family of things.