Poetry

Nothing thrives on neglect. I take that lesson home with me.

A poem of Arizona storms.

Flying With Wet Wings
For Martin Wallner, 1955-2001
 
If we could calibrate the weight
of our sorrow, our grief
we could shrug it, shuck it, shake it
like dogs swirl rain off coats
soggy from a wet walk.
We would then be light, downright giddy
from the sense of loss
of the sense of loss.
I watched a chevron of geese
fly through heavy rain
their inner gyros set for south.
How hard, I thought
to fly with water-weighted wings.
They've no alternative to nature's flight plan.
And so they fly.
The chevron wavered,
the leader dropped back
for respite.
Another took
its place
and they were gone. 

What I know of the known world:
that it is smaller than 
both the universe and 
my spirit.
It's populations fugitive 
and tense.
I have its map
and it has changed:
Tanganyika shapeshifted to 
Tanzania.
Burma now Myanmar
the Congo morphed to Zaire,
Yugoslavia riven into Serbia and Montenegro.
What is on my wall
is nostalgic geography.
My own geography
is not impervious to change:
my hair now gray
my step less sure
but my spirit sanguine
in this world, not of it. 

Love is expressed in different forms.