Willful

My word, how I miss the geese today.
They did not come to visit the pond,
and the day drained emptier for their absence.

I miss their song, abrasive though it is,
how it divides the morning into chapters.
How soon my world revolves around geese.

Not that I know much about them. I know
nearly nothing, in fact, except that I like
the curve of their long, black necks,

and that it’s so nice to be near them
on an April day when the world feels too big.
On those days, just to hear their chafing tune

makes all distances smaller, makes all other songs
sound pleasurable enough. I have felt it.
This silence, well, it is lovely in its nothing

kind of way, and of course there’s always
this practice in letting go. Letting go what
we love, letting go what we fear, letting go

of our habits and drawing nearer the window
to see what the morning has brought—
snow in the grass. Silence in the air.

An absence of goose. And a stubborn wish
to observe not what is, but what was.

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