In , Amy Gordon is frank and unafraid to grapple with serious subject matter, and what's more, the collection includes so much beauty. In many of her poems, Gordon paints images, images, images, and then slices in with thoughtful insights and surprising reflections. She trusts the reader, gives us just enough, leaves space for us to think, feel, and interpret. That said, I should mention that Gordon's unafraid of using the imperative, when it's called for, such as in the poem, "Sing to the Boys," in which she writes, "Sing to the boys / that they might step into spring: / see clusters of white crocuses; / fall to their knees and love their lives." I felt full when I finished reading , full, grounded, moved, and hopeful. I'd been given a gift. And for that, especially now, I'm thankful. It's no accident that , which opens with the impending grief of the title poem, goes on to give us Van Gogh "trying to ride the wolf inside," "the boys who were never sung to" and the precariousness of our green world. Even in the throes of huge personal loss, this poet is outwardly attentive-and keenly aware of our need to be both clear-eyed enough to acknowledge whatever precipice looms and to be brave enough to "invent joy." This book is a deeply wise and heartening ride.