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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


Alex J. Cavanaugh said...

That's a touching tribute.

Susan Kane said...

Your words bless her.

Connie said...

Beautiful poem, Liza. A lovely tribute to her. Such sad news to hear she had passed. She was so talented.

Susan Flett Swiderski said...

No, dust isn't all that remains. Her words remain... her poetry. She's immortal as long as anyone reads her poetry.

Beautiful tribute, dear lady.

Jennifer Shirk said...


Jan Morrison said...

Perfect! I always love your poems as I always loved hers.

Yvonne Osborne said...

She was one of my favorites and I can't get her words out of my head. It's like a mantra:
"What is it you plan to do with your one wild precious life?"

The hole she left is indeed vast.
You write a fitting tribute, one I think she would like.

mshatch said...

Wow. I thought you were sharing a Mary Oliver poem.

Michael Di Gesu said...

Hi Liza,

I'm sure she is smiling in heaven from your lovely tribute.

Joanne said...

superb homage. You showed your "Oliver" touch.

Tanza Erlambang said...

lovely poem.
Have a great day

Tanza Erlambang said...

A lovely tribute Poem.
Have a great day

Carol Kilgore said...

Beautiful poem, Liza.