after Mary Oliver

Have I not met another poet on the bike path,
both of us pedalling towards a life slathered with language, intimate and healing?
Have I not tasted the cold, while sampling air
on my bike in the mornings of January?
Even here and even now, the boardwalks are
sprinkled with a faint frost.
Have I not cried, utterly in awe with the sun that is refracted by the web of morning dew?
Have I not shivered with aliveness?