I somehow got lost from some of my favorite blogs for a while. Thank you to Brian Dean Powers for bringing Words of the Year back to me.
A few days ago I shared my reading of a poem about the Towhee by Barbara Crooker. And Brian shared this and another called “A Congregation of Grackles” in return. You can find that lilting beauty of a poem in the comments of the Towhee post. You can thank me later.
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.
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