No one has heard of Mary Oliver, because Americans can’t be bothered with poetry. I thought she lived in Florida, for the bulk of her life, because I know only a few of her poems; those that touch on Florida. You can find the details of her life elsewhere.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life? [final couplet from “The Summer Day”]
Her poem “When Death Comes” is being remembered, which is appropriate. I wouldn’t have heard of her passing, without someone doing exactly that.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
“At Black Water” always affected my view of alligators.