Listening to nocturnal blessing of
dry drifts of autumn leaves.
Soaking deep into roots of
But there is purring at my shoulder.
Where do we go from here?
like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.
3 comments:
Simply beautiful.
I love it...especially "pores of the earth drinking in the clouds..." I was listening to the same rain, just not so early in the a.m.
Thank you both, my dears. It was lovely, but nowhere near enough.
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