I could read Mary Oliver poems all day. . .

School

You’re like a little wild thing

that was never sent to school.

Sit, I say, and you jump up.

Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand

to the nearest dead fish

with which you perfume your sweet neck.

It is summer.

How many summers does a little dog have?

Run, run, Percy.

This is our school.

Mary Oliver