The silage field empty
of nothing but a honking island
of a thousand snow geese,
I stop for what could be mine.
Overhead hundreds circle,
settle undetectably, safe,
swiftly emptying the sky
of white and grey skeins.
I wait for everyone to land,
walk beauty-hungry and wingless
toward them. Two or three sense
my strange approach and drift.
I step slowly, broad shouldered
with great love and homeless desire
over corn-rich clods to see the island lift.
Today, after you, this is my only power.
Cradling the flock’s racing hearts,
a sparkling surge of countless, prudent v’s
sings one high pitch of blue solidarity
slanted for miles and miles away from me.
2012
And so, maybe I understand part of why you’re where you are. This is a walk I would share with you! Thanks for bringing me along.
Yes, there are little perks to living on the plains. They are subtle usually, but worth slowing down to gather up.
Being sensitive to the subtle things can create real poetry. Such sensitivity says something about your soul, Rachel. That you have courage enough to live vulnerably, permeably.
Thank you, Padma, for these kind words.