There are Canadian geese in my yard. They've stopped off, I think, on their way south, or this is south for them, and I'm glad to have them. They honk and flap, and attacked the cat, who, in fairness, attacked them first. 
I love it that they're here, but sad, too. Soon, the monarchs will come, a stop over for their winter nest in Mexico. I've planted butterfly bushes for them. They will come and the hummingbirds will leave, and winter will shiver down from the north and will settle over the lake in a cold, gray fog, and I will be another year older . . .
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
from Dream Work by Mary Oliver
published by Atlantic Monthly Press
© Mary Oliver
Posts
