A Year of Being Here

Walking in the woods, thinking about the coming war,

late snow sifting down, I startled some geese
in the nearby cornfields; they took off in squadrons, bugles
blaring; the whump, whump of their wingbeats, rotors
in the wind. I was thinking about Li Po’s “Grief in Early Spring,”
and I grew colder, knowing what lies ahead, all those sons
flying off with bright fanfares, returning home in silence.

Here, the Jordan Creek cuts through the marshes, rushing
over stones, over pieces of ice. And the snow keeps on falling,
softly, lightly—the coverlet a mother might settle on a cradle,
as she watches her newborn sleep to make sure he’s breathing,
his small chest still moving, up, and down.