An ode (of sorts) to Mary Oliver

I am frequently paralysed by 
    the choices of the modern world:
    from how to spend $50 
    to how to spend my own life
    which streaming service to keep?
    which show to binge next?
    Leaves me flailing
    on my back,    
        like a slater

Perhaps this has always been a problem        
on some level,
    no doubt exacerbated,
    by optical fibre
    but, how do you choose what you do 
    with these ticking hours? 
Mary Oliver phrased it beautifully; 
    ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’
But sometimes I want to say back to Mary
    ‘What is it you plan to do with this one wild
    selection of Netflix originals?’

Of course, 
    Mary Oliver,
    Saint that she was,
    probably wouldn’t have made the first choice
    to even entertain the notion 
    of the Netflix scroll
She was just choosing which flower        
to write her next poem about
    and would probably
    gently encourage me 
    towards the hum out the window
    of life pulsing electric
    through stardust and soil

Ghost Mary reminds me
    the choice was never just
    whether to rewatch the Matrix trilogy
    or try something new
The choice was (and is)
    to show up and write
    some words on this page
    or to distract myself,
    from myself    
    catching up to 
    myself.

Of course you can watch movies 
    and show up 
    to your creative life
    (arguably, it’s essential)
    but I know when my own scales
    are tipped.

So Mary, 
    here I am
    beneath a thumping fan in the kitchen 
    writing.
    I want to write the poems,
    like you. 
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