sometimes, i am startled out of myself
like this morning,
when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.
here the last stars of a cold winters night are
hiking up their petticoats and bowing to the promise of a new day.
i started long ago in the still dark,
thinking about the nature of healing.
how everything and everyone are
so that as you wake and reflect on light,
i feel your heart surging in the tides that crest between us.
your thoughts form in the welcoming air and touch mine;
and a thousand other points of light.
this morning i am keenly aware how
healing and love form in every cell, breath, thought, action.
everything we are and do
is an offering;
one must consistently choose love anew.