The White Goose . . .

I saw a child walk forward into a field

A level land it was with marshes, reeds, and waterways

In every direction your eye took you, it was all level

Not a mountain, or a hill; not a knoll, nor even a mound

And the sky was very large; larger than the fear of being

Too small when the answer comes

And the clouds folded their arms about her

Though they were very high that day –  

The silent witnesses that above keep watch

I saw the child stand still and gaze awhile

Hosts of hungry hearts were with her

All so small she thought they could fit inside her

That she should carry them and take them further

She had suffered so there was room     

The emptier she got the more a bearer she became

And the more room in her for more

She belonged to that which looked for her

Which she never named

I saw the child turn and face the other way

I followed her gaze and I saw what she saw

A wild goose a little distance away

Not a farm goose lost, but it was all white

One wing hung down, broken she thought

Instant her passion to gather it into her embrace

And there it was, at her feet, fearless, tame

In its eye the sweetest part of every hurt thing        

In its heart the cry of every suffering creature

I saw the child stagger beneath the weight of answers

The white goose cradled in her arms

If I could paint a picture of the healing of the many 

There it would be, a child holding a goose

Both as simple as each other, blind to what wasn’t love

If I could hold a picture, and a dream of the passion

There it would be, a child cradling her goose

Both lost in the better part of pain, and found in its gift

Both saving one another journeying home

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