Small Stone for 18 January, 2019

The winter sky is azure glazed,
A bowl wiped clean of cloud smudge by the wind.
It would ping like porcelain.

See the wild geese fly.
They pass in straggling flotillas,
Outward bound to far away and someplace else.
Sleek, like white-hulled racing shells they glide,
Long prows black and needle thin,
Wings like oar blades
Sculling through the liquid air.
Hear them cry the stroke.

One day,
I will not stay behind and watch them
Sail away without me,
Off across the watercolor wash of winter sky
Bound for far away and someplace else.
One day, I will follow after.
But not yet.
Not yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.