in December

This year the geese have flown
so low I‘ve seen the thick shafts
of pewter on the undersides
of their wide strong wings.
I envy their instinct,
their destination clear and constant,
imagine an existence free of decisions,
a life on the wing-
predictable and finite,
with one song-
beautiful and wild.

The clouds look like snow,
grey sacks slung low in the weary sky.
My fingers ache in warning.
I keep them busy,
fill them with my own certainties,
the tasks that define me,
the instincts that guide my steps.

I stand on the margin of winter,
my back to the wind.
There are no more geese overhead,

no flakes of first snow.
Only a few late leaves flutter down.
I catch the brightest one,
press it to my heart.