S. R. Lavin
The Geese Don'T Know What Day It Is - Poem by S. R. Lavin
In Second Milo (New York) I remember
in complete detail my grandfather driving
the back roads of rural Massachusetts,
how we would stop in a glen and eat cherries
which he kept in a giant paper sack.
He always knew the shady place along the way
where we should stop and recollect ourselves.
A swallow darts past me, reviving me,
as I speed over the landscape
and in my reverie I think “this is heaven.”
Or, what heaven could be….
such as I was, one of these, fully human
in all my weaknesses and all that was beautiful.
The geese soar overhead, squawking
on their way to better feeding grounds.
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