Mary Ruefle

When I read your poetry,
I envision you as my mother,
or grandmother even, with a voice
of a dying songbird. Your angel thin
hair must make for an excellent nest.

I sometimes see you as an old friend,
or an old friend of a friend, the kind
full of wise words and God and
yourself. I wonder if I will ever be full
of you.

I once tried memorizing
an entire book of yours, starting
from the back and moving
backwards still. I quickly found myself
reading in circles, for my brain
has room for ten poems only
before it forgets how to brush teeth
and blaspheme.

I like the thought that you are
the only person that reminds me of you.

One day we will meet
and I will tell you these things,
though I know that all you will say is
'It looks like rain.'

I will smile and nod my head
and try to remember a poem you wrote about an owl or snow,
but all that will come to mind is
heigh-ho little moon, heigh-ho.