Reading Mary Oliver
       

       The fire has taken at last,
       as have the lines from
       this other woman's poetry.

       Her hummingbirds are not mine,
       nor the necklace stiles 
       of her countryside.
       The turn of her words
       fetches a softer cheek.
       The hand she holds is mild.

       But look here --
       the common seagull cry,
       a wind to roil a New England beach,
       words that murmur 
       through a harp in the reeds.
       These, too, are mine.

       I take a rough tool 
       from the rack
       and tumble the coals,
       now glowing
       with the promise of heat.




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