The air bites, sharp
as Winter’s kiss. But wait:
Geese will arrive, necks stretched,
wings spread,
pulling a softer wind
to wrap our fresh-bared skin.
____________________
The air bites, sharp
as Winter’s kiss. But wait:
Geese will arrive, necks stretched,
wings spread,
pulling a softer wind
to wrap our fresh-bared skin.
____________________
The geese, all week,
have been flying. Home.
Away from this sharp promise of snow
cutting through crisply darkening skies
south, to the crucible of summer.
Their far-carrying call
slicing through the high, cold air
picks up our hearts by the scruff
and deposits them, safe
but shaken and absurdly hungry
for that next bright dawn in March.
_____________________________
Geese, again. The skies
are letting summer fly through
rents in pewter clouds.
_______________________