A Seasonal Country

 

Two dull mornings in a row

I’ve seen a ray of geese

slant up to intercept the morning light

And push it southward.

For a month, or so, they’ll push

‘Til we begin to feel the loss,

The whitened tones of their own inner suns

a final glimpse

Of what they lift and sing toward.

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Resigned to a seasonal country

I wonder, behind a mist of breath,

what choices remain.

To pack my life and follow them

or instead hole up for a gust

Of pallid toil, revert to a life of the mind,

Lazing in the light

of imagination

 Unwinding in the warmth

 of memory…

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[Though pressed by chill night

into a micro-cosmos of two-headed

laughter and the sound of four slow feet

against snow-soft pavement,

with breath into cold air

like radio-waves from the blackest possible source,

there was yet the extension that is a place to go,

and the ambient silence of two, warm, in winter.]

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Gleaming through the chaotic grey, the geese again,

but air, this day, so thick

with fog they lift, they rise,

And then are gone like a mist-chance.

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So should I try

to flap and fly with them,

Eclipse some groundling’s dawn and see beyond

A green world glowing?

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Or weather November’s ambivalence knowing

No season not yours.

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c Gossamer Universe 2017
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