A CAPRI-SUN ON A HILL WITH MARY OLIVER

On colder days, I dream of sitting

on the shoulder of a hill with Mary Oliver

drinking a Capri-Sun. Blackcurrant.

I'd ask her so many things.

I had often wondered what she'd write

of dying-- that descent into black nothingness.

I'd ask, is death a hungry bear in autumn?

Does he come like a common cold

or was it the measles? Remind me again!

Does he lurch in the silence

or spread his limbs like a star?

Does he devour you all at once

or patiently, torturously chips away

at flesh and marrow and mastery

and I shouldn't be so preoccupied with death

I imagine her saying, for there is life!

There is life! And it is meant to be lived

like a hungry bear in autumn.

We'd finish our Capri-Suns in silence

and watch over the sleeve of the sky

drop down the wrist of the day.

Everything is beautiful.

Even death?

Especially death.

Mary Oliver sitting on a bench, without a Capri-Sun.