Dreaming peace
(in a warring time and place),
a flock of silver geese
rose from the rush of the reeds,
their feathers flushed
with the promise of a late winter breeze.
The geese brushed off the tapestry
of a thousand and one ancient trees,
and laughed,
arching their slender necks back,
knees stretched,
straight and strong,
tails spread long.
Borne on the song
of the wings of the wind,
the geese pointed their webbed toes,
lifting off the moans
of a thousand and one
weeping souls.
Sifting peace
above a raging sea,
the geese, as though drifting
on a seamless time and place,
dreamed free.
They were interlocked with space,
the massive silver flock,
and they rocked as one,
culling the power
of the iridescent sun.
asm
Alice Myerson planted herself in the boogie down bronx way back when the world was young and has watched the seasons change there ever since. She is a mother, a lover, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a nurse, a nurse practitioner, an hiv specialist, a human rights worker who quietly writes a poem or two, and sometimes even a story on the background of our turbulent, dynamic and ever fascinating world.
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