October 14, 10:12 PM
I'm sitting here listening to Mary Oliver read her poem through the speakers in this little silver box, and five words in, there you are. You didn't write poems. At least we didn't find any among the newspaper articles on how to care for violets and the grocery lists and shells and strands of your hair still threaded through the prickly pink velcro rollers. Yet each morning, you took the hand of your poet self when you walked around your yard curiously unearthing the new.