Magic Geese

Dirt and smudged rock coat this slender
anonymous body where a man of 60 years
or more has fallen flat and far
to his spacious ungracious end.

Each precious concern he may have held in his calloused
grasping hands disappears in the April wind.

Clouds of death’s first wife trail across the cerulean sky
and the magic geese cry loud in bright angelic song,

they with speech so strident,
in tight algebraic formation
fly higher than man can write,

as heaven herself heaves
a simple
sinking
breathless
sigh.