The Soul of Poetry

Please,
take me back
into the soul of poetry.
This is my prayer.

Geese fly overhead.
I hear,
I open the window to hear.
I open the door to see
countless, three long diagonal processions
one after the other.

Cold moves across my fingers.
The sun is low and red
through sparse sapling branches.
I step outside.

Birds sing into orange light.
Damp cold seeps into my feet—

Shhhh, shhhh, shhhhhhh,
a high wind rustles the tops of popples.

Their roots draw unseen below standing water.
I have nothing to say about these things
but to name them
this morning, home in the body
of poetry.