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.
Not stagnating, but waiting.