Mary Oliver died yesterday at the age of 83. I never met her, but I feel as though I knew her. Perhaps that was her greatest gift.
Her poetry was intimate and approachable. Her subjects relatable; her language simple, but hardly simplistic. Her words were a subtle greeting that had the ability to draw you in and encourage you to stay long enough to grasp the depth within.
May I never not be frisky,
May I never not be risqué.
May my ashes when you have them, friend,
and give them to the ocean,
leap in the froth of the waves,
still loving movement,
still ready, beyond all else,
to dance for the world.