It seems as if the geese could
bump into each other in this mist,
each screeching into the void
sounding out to the others
calling the way forward
southward, onward toward the
next season, the next warm nest.
I can’t see to the end of my driveway,
fog hanging in white, billowing curtains,
pulling me into the story,
some elegant myth, where rooms
are always long and tall and
sparsely furnished, but for the
draperies blowing in from the veranda.
And I, out standing in my field,
in layers of scarves, for the same effect,
hair blowing; it’s so romantic,
except for the bucket of hog mash
I carry, and the muck boots
that keep me grounded so I
do not gracefully float
from one chore to the next.
But the wild geese squawking
in their dramatic, it’s the end
of the world way – which is
how geese sound all the time,
not just when they can’t see
the path ahead of them; my
geese are always at their wits
end over the trauma of waddling
across their yard
to get food from my hand.
Their cries in the grey, leading
others to follow, their beacons
of sound and “We are in this
together,” remind me of
the place in my heart that gets
knit together at the sound of
another’s words, an honest howl
a sigh, a shudder, a tear
that resonates with me, speaks
my whole world in a teaspoon
and I cannot always see beyond
my own feet, my own muck and mire,
but I know there are others ahead
out there in the mist, the fog so thick,
I won’t say it,
I will not say it,
It resembles soup not one bit. What crazy
whimsy would see this as green?
Ahead, pushing through panels of white,
gauzy stage wrap, lost in layers,
trying to find the opening
to give a bow or start the narration,
is someone just like me,
struggling, and putting on a smile
because here are the lights,
and here is the show,
and we’ve forgotten our lines,
we’ll make it up as we go.
11/20/2014
photo from here