a poem about geese

A poem about geese is forming in increments
on pages in my notebook,
on scraps and post-its scattered through the house
and in my head.

This afternoon I asked it,
Where will you go?
Are you stuck in a fit of pique?
Are you merely the straw for new verse fodder?
What sudden rush or whispered prompt will rouse you into action?

After the inquisition, a pause.
Then this.

Not stagnating, but waiting.


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