V

On this train, snow
wings past the window,
near strangers murmur;
the Canada geese are flying out
of formation, gone from my sight
by the time, perhaps, they reach V.
Which is home for them?
North or South.
Recalling the tale of the goose
who pecked the barn window
year after year after year
after his mate’s grounding
twisted wing,
I think of you, Bev;
how illness plucks us
out of V-point,
scatters the pattern,
calls us to falling
back to rest on the draft, current
of others’ wings; to letting
the Other take the tip
that cuts the harsh air.

Dis-ease sends us North.

To places of glace,
where clear winds pierce
dull clouds,
doubt curling like frost.
Like the geese, we head home—
faith blue in the amazing sky—
leaning on lift,
trusting in body-truth,
listening
in the silence of air
for the honk
and sweep of angels.