A Thousand Years of Staring

The smell of wood
burning in the fireplace
dances in the air
mixing with the
sound of the river.

Today, I am sure
we learned about motion
by watching the water.

Thousands of years of staring,
daily staring,
heavy staring,
into the flowing
wetness –

driven moisture –

made them sure they
could float a log
or turn a wheel.

I have come here for
the sound of her movement,
for the peace of
her traveling – to hide from
Zoe’s death.

The geese come here.
They move at sunset..
as the glow disappears,
a chorus swells.

One goose
carries the point of
the song;
pounding home the call
to make music.
“Sing. Sing,” she calls.
And, they do.

A lovely song.
It grows and deepens
as they approach.
And, as they are overhead,
I close my eyes, and
with Rumi, I raise my
hand and drink in
the secret nectar.

I dance.
Twirl,
pause,
slide, whirl.
I have come here
for the geese.

I have come here
for them to sing
the song for me.
This past week
our little girl died.

Zoe Alexander,
laden with cysts on
her head and spine,
died inside her mother.

We saw her on the
screen. Little hands and feet.
A chord, and cysts. Before
they could take her from us,
she died.

I came to the river to
stare. My numbness screams
out to listen. I came here to
hear the geese. Here
there are no words of consolation,
no words of hope; but,
the pounding of the silence
and the movement.

I came to the river
That the one goose might carry
The point of the song for me.
For now, I must stare, and feel
the pounding rhythm of darkling flow
within my arches, within my chest.

Ciao,

+Tom