A golden shovel poem for Mary Oliver
Unexpected, you told me in the morning, I
Was not who you knew, the way I held
Your bent fingers to the sharp pain below my
Knee, how you smiled and in a breath
Kissed me as you smiled, as
I flattened my hand to yours, still crooked, as we
Pulled away the grate, jumped the fence, the flash of a single light, do
You remember? Touching can be pressing, sometimes
When there is no chance to
Say yes, yes, again, running up the steps, stop
To meet halfway, the light trailing, still, time
Not minded. This, I know, is when
The old things must end. Something
Will change, the pull inside my throat, a wonderful
Bloom behind my closed eyes. What has
Been will be no longer, because I have been pressed, touched,
A flower between two pages, neither page reads “us"
Unexpected, you told me in the morning, I
Was not who you knew, the way I held
Your bent fingers to the sharp pain below my
Knee, how you smiled and in a breath
Kissed me as you smiled, as
I flattened my hand to yours, still crooked, as we
Pulled away the grate, jumped the fence, the flash of a single light, do
You remember? Touching can be pressing, sometimes
When there is no chance to
Say yes, yes, again, running up the steps, stop
To meet halfway, the light trailing, still, time
Not minded. This, I know, is when
The old things must end. Something
Will change, the pull inside my throat, a wonderful
Bloom behind my closed eyes. What has
Been will be no longer, because I have been pressed, touched,
A flower between two pages, neither page reads “us"