Mary Oliver was a master of noticing. A walk. An owl. Snow falling at night. And somehow, she turns it into a doorway back to ourselves. When I read poems like this, I don’t think of them as “poetry” in the fancy sense. I think of them as mindfulness on the page. They slow us down. They gently pull us out of overthinking. They remind us how to be here without effort, without trying to be better. That’s why I love Mary Oliver so much. Her poems don’t ask for analysis. They ask for attention. And