The Geese Song

My hurtled-brain is snapping flashbacks,
Anesthetized by memory pangs
And too-late heartbreak without antidote,
A vacuum-sealed frozen vegetable.

I was a child wanting to be a child,
Looking for him in rain-ridden rooms
With wet sand floors sinking
Through hourglasses thick with mud,
Broken open in emergency
To remove time’s hand from my neck.

I patch up shadows with my shade,
Melting youth in candlelight,
While ringing out my window
The geese glide through the night
Striding in Christ-white music,
Feeding their wings off the tree-top breeze.

And in the veined paths of life
I’ve cut off from circulation,
Still I feel, beyond good reason,
My heart is not too sick to sing with them.

--Andrew H., Adult