The long way to Goose Lake on a bright frosty morning, birds in the sun over a field of stubble. Or is it your grandfather’s face? Yes, it is, he has returned. No, he hasn’t, he never departed. Yes, you are in his lap and you feel his warmth. And the birds are his thoughts, they are everything he remembers, they are songs of old times never quite ended, only begun. The long way to Goose Lake, still silent in shade. When it’s this cold, is shade the right word? No. Shadow, then? And yet, what does it matter in the life of a reclusive mud-mirror? Steam, rising from rotting leaves in the path. The earth is a loaf of bread just from the oven. Your grandmother, too, must be near. Your grandmother is the oven. And then, someone turns the page, or falls in love, and you’re gone. But not lost. The sky is that clear.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces