Numbers of geese flew overhead and you laughed at my excitement, our mutual
relief
at the sight of the old farm still standing, the broken windmill, the
outlying buildings.
They held a future we dreamed aloud – a vegetable garden,
flocks of chickens and turkeys, thick as clouds and eager for morning.
Your fingertips relieved the ache that settled into my shoulders
so many years before I’d lost count.
The ache set into new places, almost forgotten, for a little while longer
for a full season of wonder
as we made final promises against a sun that kept disappearing
as if into a great crack in a wall of reoccurring rainbows. You told me
about the geese
that would land in the new pond and stay, the cows that were coming soon
spoke as if we had a real destination, a plan.
I am still holding onto that first day, descending over barren hills
borders between states disappearing into thin spiderwebs crisscrossing a map
sacred ash in a smoldering iron pot. I remember when you laid out
your theory of the sun-scorched, explained how we
were just like those clouds of birds that came to rest on the flat, golden
plains around us
their feathers taunting us our slow, tired bondage to earth.
It all made so much sense back then.
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center
in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, and Ugly Girl.
Foxglove Journal 