I ran into Mary Oliver's New and Selected Poems last night, a book I haven't seen in about seven years. I borrowed it and brought it home with me. I remembered this book very fondly (and I remember writing a poem called "the machinery of my tongue, this scent of a flower" immediately after finishing the book), and the book stands up as strong today as it stood in my memory.
"Goldenrod" is from the book's first section.
"Goldenrod" is from the book's first section.
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