Reading the late Mary Oliver,
I have a bookmark marking a favorite poem.
It used to be
a long piece of brown paper,
The handle of a paper bag.
I read a few more poems
And then a few more,
marking the ones I like
With the brown paper bookmark.
The bookmark gets shorter and shorter.
As I get older, each day is unique,
not amazing, just unique
Like a Mary Oliver poem
except not one of her best.
Maybe more like one
that didn’t make the anthology.
But the point is
I am bookmarking more and more of my days
Because they are becoming
more and more like poems.
And the bookmarks are
getting shorter and shorter.
But that doesn’t bother me.
Should it?
If you have a comment on this poem, Gary can be contacted at Gllindorff@gmail.com