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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Gossamer Universe 