What I wanted
was for geese to fly north
against ice-wind, rewind
the days, Or perhaps, no,
I wanted them
to hurry south-bound.
Let the sky be vacant again
Unfilled by this migration.
While testing the give
and sweetness of oranges
at the market, a lover once
suddenly understood
he did not love me
thus becoming, simply
a man, left holding
an empty basket.
This was not that
kind of leaving.
Though, the sky grew dark
with winter. The deep V
formations of geese
had already stretched
past the Iowa borders into
an ocher beckoning of corn.
Nor was it like
the bag of oranges
my grandmother brought to appease
the fever which
burned in my limbs
with my father’s death.
Nor was it like the butterfly
which travelled
north in the dead of winter
emerging wing, then wing
from bright fruit, a cure.
It was more like morning;
the bowl of oatmeal blossomed on the table
above a steady cradle of floor.
I kissed you in the quiet of your sleep,
as the sky blurred,
was swept, behind thousands of soft,
keening, grey bodies.
No matter how still, nothing
left behind.
Photo Source: Thriving Pessimist
