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I’ve always liked Mary Oliver, even on the day my writing professor printed out one of her poems and invited the entire class to mock it. According to my memory (which admittedly has been known to change facts to make a story better), this professor even singled out one Mary Oliver poem for special insult. It was a poem I recognized—I’d hand-lettered, decorated, and framed it as a gift for my mother the previous Christmas. She keeps it in her painting studio to this day.

Ultimately, I decide...