Thirst by Mary Oliver Page B

exactly, just lingering.
        Such gifts, bestowed,
            can’t be repeated.
    If you want to talk about this
    come to visit. I live in the house
        near the corner, which I have named
            
Gratitude.

Praying
    It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
    a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
    into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Musical Notation: 2
    Everything is His.
The door, the door jamb.
The wood stacked near the door.
The leaves blown upon the path
    that leads to the door.
The trees that are dropping their leaves
    the wind that is tripping them this way and that way,
the clouds that are high above them,
the stars that are sleeping now beyond the clouds
    and, simply said, all the rest.
    When I open the door I am so sure so sure
    all this will be there, and it is.
I look around.
I fill my arms with the firewood.
I turn and enter His house, and close His door.

News of Percy (Five)
    In the morning of his days he is in the afternoon of his life.
It’s some news about kidneys, those bean-shaped necessities,
    of which, of his given two, he has one working, and
        that not well.
    We named him for the poet, who died young, in the blue
    waters off Italy.
Maybe we should have named him William, since Wordsworth
    almost never died.
    We must laugh a little at this rich and unequal world,
    so they say, so they say.
And let them keep saying it.
    Percy and I are going out now, to the beach, to join
    his friends—
the afghan, the lab, the beautiful basset.
And let me go with good cheer in his company.
For though he is young he is beloved,
    he is all but famous as he runs
across the shining beach, that faces the sea.

Doesn’t Every Poet Write a Poem about Unrequited Love?
    The flowers
    I wanted to bring to you,
        wild and wet
            from the pale dunes
    and still smelling
    of the summer night,
        and still holding a moment or two
            of the night cricket’s
    humble prayer,
    would have been
        so handsome
            in your hands—
    so happy—I dare to say it—
    in your hands—
        yet your smile
            would have been nowhere
    and maybe you would have tossed them
    onto the ground,
        or maybe, for tenderness,
            you would have taken them
    into your house
    and given them water
        and put them in a dark corner
            out of reach.
    In matters of love
    of this kind
        there are things we long to do
            but must not do.
    I would not want to see
    your smile diminished.
        And the flowers, anyway,
            are happy just where they are,
    on the pale dunes,
    above the cricket’s humble nest,
        under the blue sky
            that loves us all.

Letter to ___________.
    You have broken my heart.
    Just as well. Now
        I am learning to rise
            above all that, learning
    the thin life, waking up
    simply to praise
        everything in this world that is
            strong and beautiful
    always—the trees, the rocks,
    the fields, the news
        from heaven, the laughter
            that comes back
    all the same. Just as well. Time
    to read books, rake the lawn
        in peace, sweep the floor, scour
            the faces of the pans,
    anything. And I have been so
    diligent it is almost
        over, I am growing myself
            as strong as rock, as a