“Don’t tell us how to love, don’t tell us

how to grieve, or what to grieve for,

or how loss shouldn’t sit down like a gray bundle of dust

in the deepest pockets of our energy,

don’t laugh at our belief,

that money isn’t everything,

don’t tell us how to behave in anger, in longing, in loss, in home-sickness,

don’t tell us, dear friends.”

__

“Goodbye, house.

Goodbye, sweet and beautiful house,

we shouted, and it shouted back,

goodbye to you, and lifted itself

down from the town, and set off

like a packet of clouds across the harbor’s blue ring,

the tossing bell, the sandy point – and turned

lightly, wordlessly,

into the keep of the wind

where it floats still –

where it plunges and  rises still

on the black and dreamy sea.”

Goodbye House, by Mary Oliver.