While Reading Mary Oliver

Far from the forest  
sat a bench 
where I ate my lunch; 
the January sun was delicious;  
a dead woman spoke to me 
from pages gilded with foxes  
and ebullient leaves; 
her body lies below the ground 
upon which she danced 
with Mozart, swans and larks; 
now her brittle fingers 
feed flamboyant trees 
and necessary sparrows;  
“Sing,” she said to me 
repeatedly,  

repeatedly, 
repeatedly