The doorbell rang at seven; we knew they were not lost. We ate spaghetti with garlic and broccoli, a pear martini, a bottle of Zinfandel, a slice of apple pie, home-brewed beer, vanilla ice cream. Puff pastry with figs and gorgonzola, herbed olives, brie-style cheese from Vermont, Shelburne Farms cheddar. Someone said I was a good writer, someone drew pictures of monsters, someone brought cookies. I slept terribly, awoke with a headache, and read Mary Oliver poems over miso soup.
Listen, she said, Are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
I miss poetry! It’s hard to admit how much I loved it, since it’s such a cheesy thing to say, but you are reminding me of how much I do miss it. This Mary Oliver poem is beautiful. Reminds me quite a bit of Dickinson (who I was shocked to find I also loved when I took second year Early American Literature - as she’s also kind of a cliche).
Your writing is becoming wonderfully poetic as well.
I used to write with a bit more poetics, but I seem to have lost it in the interceding years between college and real life.
I love that here, you are leaving out the commentary and leaving in what’s inherently important, drawing attention to the beauty of the everyday.
That is a beautiful poem.
Serves to remind us that all too many days pass where we allow breathing to pass as being and far too many doors are left unopened.