BY MARK CLEMENT
Copyright is held by the author.
Three geese startle the big blue sky
and their wings press against the still air
of winter as they rise from the flat gray river
and circle in search of the southern compass.
White is everywhere on the land
and on the trees whose black bones
bow beside this old gray house.
There are no footprints at the door.
Gravity pulls the building and it leans
towards the hidden summer soil
where green lives once stood or sat
content beside the flashing river.
And here I am, a witness to this edge
of sleep at the end of summer’s sun.
It is cold as the warm geese flap away.
There are no footprints in the snow.