Confessions of a Morthanist
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes when it seems that, surely, all that needs to be said for awhile has been said, the muse seems elsewhere and the screen is blank, taunting in its emptiness, Something reaches in and says, “Here, read this.”
And so came this poem by Mary Oliver called, “The Pinewoods.”
Just before dawn
three deer
came [...]
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