After Mary Oliver, Today
Language comes from life,
a friend said to me recently
commenting on my regret
for a year without song.
But really, I have waited for years,
for letters to arrive,
for them to make their way to this hold;
this temple; this mountaintop.
Waited reluctantly perhaps, for love,
surely for life, certainly for language;
to come find, me in my stillness,
this new alphabet I’m trying to learn.
Like once, in a repainting, how you found concealed,
a set of doors that you didn’t know existed,
and decided to open them out, having stood folded,
patiently for half a century and more.
So tell me now, shall I have chased it instead?
Like I always have and if so, how do I find out,
if life is in the finding
or being found?