by Gladys L. Henderson
Geese swim the river clothed in a new fluff of snow,
they follow each other with obedience, bend their paths to accommodate
the ice that breaks with the flow. The vigilant remains untiring,
it will be she who gestures the others to flight, welcomes the lost home.
In one trailing call they make their ascent off the river, called by passions
they bend their way southward where the water lies open
and the tidal land exposes its tender succulents.
In the incensed shadows of the colonnade behind the high altar
a sister waits, eyes cast down, hands folded below her scapula,
the rope belt of her profession, in perfect placement.
I do not look at her as I pass— gesture with my head, no.
She bows and nods, runs to catch up with the others. The sounds of her habit
a rush of wings across the marble floor.
Easter Sunday and all of April is in blossom. On this day nothing remains dead,
all things are resurrected. I watch as they leave the cathedral,
lined up in rows of two, black and white habits blowing in the warm spring wind.
They will turn southward, towards the convent, where a sweetness resides
that is beyond sustenance. I go with them, even now.
|Gladys Henderson’s first book of poetry, Eclipse Of Heaven, was published by Finishing Line Press, June 2008. More >|