First the geese fly south, then winter—
they call to it mournfully, bid it follow.
When the geese fly north, then summer—
arriving without effort, as when moonset
brings the dawn. When the trees release
their leaves, days shorten in the same way
windows open when robin song is loudest.
Rain speckles the river in reply to the frogs.
The ache in my bones brings bright mists
and a body of memory so rich I walk in it;
leafmeal makes the forest, fecund and thick,
and the past turns present so swiftly
you might believe time makes the sun rise
but it’s really the passage of geese.