Hurt

Hurt and pain is something none of us are able to escape being born into this world.
Some of it is expressed in the poem my daughter shared with me.

Rich


Packs of geese are landing
in the pre-winter river -
flurried graded grey to black
and fluid silver flashes
of the reflected moon.
Crass calls and the ecstatic
anarchic wind of all wings
at once
garners no applause
even though
the magnificent uproar
drowns the sound
of all the town’s
despicable bipeds
tooting their own horns.
I stand watching - awkward,
lonely, lachrymose and obsessing
over recent sins
over truths such as the first plastic
ever made has not yet disintegrated
and all the world’s waste is
piling up somewhere out of sight
and how so many will never know
the fierce staggering degree
to which I love them. Oh well.
The geese will fly in the morning
I will see the v from my window
and hear the phantom voices.
I will begin the day longing
illogically for that height
and horizon.