There’s a toddler out there
swinging mitts on strings —
store-bought woollen pendula
that shatter water — I can’t
fathom the mystery nor
the malice of it — he
disturbs the peace with
extended grasp and
without frowning adults
stepping forward
three geese rear up
and snap —
not biting but
hissing venom —
funny how
in springtime
they were yellow —
a mild season suffered
scantly
for all then was enfolded
dreaming for goslings —
then again
a soft surface may ruffle —
a sun wanes and makes
an absence known —
breath hovers and
is held and
I must console the friend
whose father’s dying —
our tangled conversation
will speak of slaps
and seasons way off.
