Wild Geese

Today on our way into town, we listened to the news of last night’s election. It was interesting at first, then the commentators blathered on. We switched it over to our latest Audible book, “At Blackwater Pond,” a collection of Mary Oliver poems read by the poet herself. The second poem up was “Wild Geese,” and I was reminded of the geese I heard this morning, those back to winter here, after their summer in Canada or Alaska. While I didn’t capture a flight, I hope to capture the feeling of autumn, the colored poplars, the rare blue sky, and the wild feeling of geese flying over. It was much better than listening to the rehash of election news. My thought: only poets can run for any office.

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 clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and 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.