On water, on air, the geese
were equally surrendered
to movement, perfect in
balance, between their will
and the wind
that ran them in slow circles
all afternoon, like a poet
pacing in a turret, in a novel
set in Paris (everything
black, white, and grey).
An odd leaf blew
up
and away, caught in
a current, far, now farther, farther
from the mass—how my bones
would like to fall into the broken
fern but wait—now the leaf flies
like a kite seized upon by wind—it turns
into a golden finch—reminds me
I told
the world
I had something to give, and it waits.
It sits in a bowl like sourdough
in a windowless pantry, yet to be—
I have not acquired wrapping,
nor ribbon for this gift.
I sit still until my will
adheres to a shape, even though I cry
and scream:
“I thought it would be easier.”
The smallest steps, a wise wind
says, until you fall into pace—I know
it is hard
to walk between
the weightless
light and the lead
of earth.