I often feel that the seasons, and the way the trees respond to them, are among the few certainties we still have. The last twenty years have seen so many unexpected changes in my life, in this city, in the world. But the same familiar trees unfailingly lose their leaves, green and bloom in a predictable cycle that never ever fails, a steady warp on which the shaky weft of our days forms irregular patterns.
Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself,
like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.