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Saturday, January 19, 2019

For Mary Oliver

(September 10, 1935 – January 17, 2019)

When a poet dies
words drift,
milkweed floss
on an updraft,
white bleeding to sky,
watermarks waning
to nothing, beyond.
The hole grows.
Image to hand to page,
liquid through fingers,
raindrops off a leaf, 
ache to ember, coal to ash.
Sifting through cinders,
you feel for warmth,
but the unsaid,
ghosts ephemeral.
All that remains
is air.

Liza Carens Salerno