by Helen Marie Casey, from the chapbook Refuge:

Near the Spillway

Nine Canadian geese survey the pond, placid in afternoon sun,
lure of lift-off. Nine of them vee into formation, one in front,
one the tail, not a sound as they glide down the middle, orderly
as cadets on parade, the only sound the spillway behind them,
water whooshing down and down, gossamer dragonflies near.
Lily pads and reeds, mushrooms growing fat, signs that shout
Lovers. Leaves. Twigs. Small Buddhas, silent, cross-legged, bless
all they see and sense, paths themselves meditative. I remember
those not here, no longer able to step around the dark droppings
mid-path, perhaps a doe, or something larger, walking where
we walk now, one goose feather a kind of token, time passing,
our turn limited, fallen oaks reminding us, Tempus fugit. Dance
while time holds your hand, your heart a doorway for memories,
rose lupine under the gnarled oaks and skeletal limbs, you and I
remembering, tangerine mushrooms silent as gods in hiding, caps
of acorns under foot. The knot hole near the tree’s base invites us to
look: What do we see of all we wish to see, the disappeared we love
unresponsive, the language we know idle, marbled pellets cradled
in the tree’s roots? Across the pond a single sunflower shows itself.
Sedum and Queen Anne’s Lace beside the pond. Wild geese multiply,
fourteen of them now. They swim silently, guarding what they know.

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