Lost and Foundering
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I am, somewhat surprisingly (to me, anyway) beginning a series of poetry-written-when-I-hear-the-geese-throughout-my-day.
I look out on the
wide whole world
and, in the new morning's
Light,
I take measure of all
that
is not yet
Lost.
And
all that is
not yet
Found.
The clouds, now
reveal
to the out-turned ear
a brief frithering
as feathers brush the air
like a cockscomb brushing hair.
The geese pass.
Just ever-so-briefly
in sight, the geese
pass -
out of sight,
out of listen,
out of mind,
out of memory;
their Lost, my Found.
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018
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