Brother Goose is flying.
Before he leaves,
He moves just overhead
And calls for me to come.

As I cannot,
He pleads a sense
Of urgency.

Remember this, he cried:
“When I return,
One more year
Of this short life
Is done.
Another winter
Will have lain
Its frozen wreath
Before the pyre.
Another crocus
Will have bloomed
And then expire.”

Bidding him farewell,
I watch their flight
As far as I can see
And pray my Brother Goose
Comes back for me.

 

October 13, 2001