mary
oliver, a well established
poet
with more medals
and awards
than
you can shake a stick at.
not sure what
that means,
but i've heard it before
and so
i'm using it here.
she's a nature poet.
she's got trees and flowers
down.
hills and valleys.
that sort of thing.
i know about three different
flowers.
maybe four or five, now
that i'm thinking of
them in my head,
but that's neither here or there.
she's all over
the nature stuff, but i can't connect.
i don't feel
sad, or happy, or anything when
i read her poems. i just
think,
oh, okay. that's nice, then turn
the page.
it's like a bowl of white rice.
spoon after spoon of it goes
in, goes down.
so what.
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