Days of Soup and Holler


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.



photo from here

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