Again, the geese are flying
South, a flutter of words on
a blue page –
For a second, the world is full
of nothing more than black and white
wings that flag and signal
a start, a change of season.
I think of you on the other side
of a windy world
where waves lick at sea-scummed
rocks that have guarded shores
since before we were born.
With the instinct of a migrant
you will return and take root in dreams
in the roll of luminous waves reflected
in the sweeping eye of a lighthouse
as clouds puff up and grumble
shooed away by fair-weather winds.
I grin to think that we are so tiny -
grains of sand that spin pearls
into the mouths of oysters
split open on a beach at dawn.