first, please see the Mary Oliver poem below
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Oh! you you puncture me with your words,
direct to the sticking place, where the insertion wound cries out,
but does not bleed
my life punctuated by the, no!
punctured
bye absence of wild,
did this permit it precocious
preciousness to deteriorate?
The safe route, the wrong Fork chosen,
The tings impale, my pretend satiation,
My life is nearly over,
should I get plan?
this poetic life struggles within and to get out,
but there is no plan to let it escape,
me remake,
turn me to a peripatetic bee,
pollinating a wildflower as a mere messenger,
a carrier, only to return home to
deliver and die
precious poem
on my lips
February 9, 2025
(1) Poem 133: The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver