From across the lake,
geese gifted me with
reprimands
and screams of nonsense,
my love language.

Stepping
from behind
the paper birch
with arms full
of mangled verse
to be planted.

In a conversation
without faces,
you won’t know when
I’m imagining my back with no skin,
sort of surrendering
to airborne promises
like those of
the mockingbird
or nuclear exhaust.

They said a flotilla
of satellites
will be observing
every nuance
of happenings below.

No more
surprise parties
or stealth attacks,
no mysteries
of spring meadows
or mourning
of winter bones.

Reason upsets
need for sentiment;
affection is
the next myth
scheduled
to fall to progress.

A most appealing handful
of images were spread
like seed across a field
so hungry and willing
to open…
but mirages can happen
even in temperate climes,
with promises and secrets
both squandered
when weeds are ignored.

Stay a little longer;
no need to give up the field
so fertile and willing…
but stop casting a line to leaving winds.