To More Life

                                                                   
It's Saturday.


Michael's at his office, working. Claire decided to go on an adventure with her grandfather so I dropped them off on Main Street to run errands. She gave me a crooked smile like what am I doing, and then whispered, "I have my phone, Mom," as she shut the door and followed her grandfather into an old-time drug store. 


I drove straight home, avoiding the Saturday crowds, not wanting to be in the mix of it all.


Earlier, we'd been talking about poetry. Not like we sit around having literary discussions over our oatmeal every morning but it came up and it was a good conversation. Who's Mary Oliver, Mom?and it got me thinking about poems I love; the ones you read over and over, never tiring of the words, always feeling nourished afterwards. 


Here's a sliver from the poem, My Dead Friends, by Marie Howe, one of my favorites...


I have begun,
when I'm weary and can't decide an answer to a bewildering 
question


to ask my dead friends for their opinion
and the answer is often immediate and clear.


Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive
a child
in my middle age?


They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling-
whatever leads
to joy, they always answer,


to more life and less worry...