copeland morris THE WHITE GOOSE

When my heart hangs low, how the white goose rises;
And brings to a hush, the careless, languishing sky.

In the shimmer of time that buoyant body is shaped;
Though how perturbed is its effort no one can say.

It enfolds the sacred language of blessing and loss,
And foretells the ripples where the river must fork.

And even a child can praise those joyous pursuits
In white flowing feathers as someone's good news.

And each stroke of wings, all strenuous and satin,
Must jar the four winds of yearning and caution.

Dreams are so pure enfolding the years before
Winter and summer bright in the white goose.

 The summer left like a ghost and the city fades;
But the children raise their hands to celebrate.