Learning to Weather
       

The day after the geese leave,
everything v's in their direction:
angle of voice, sharp line smeared to mascara,
your face a blur of sky wrung out and drying.
It's a change, like weather; you smell it,
stretch out your bones, suspect everything.
To protect you from this, you sing the clipped cry of geese,
stitch to your throat their half-screams.
By mid-spring, as if you and the season were real,
you'll squawk and flutter and flee.

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Copyright © 2014 Marjorie Maddox All rights reserved
from Local News from Someplace Else
Wipf and Stock Publishers
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission