Migration

It is almost spring

and I have just come home,

having just been there,

like those black-necked geese

flying home to home.

There the robin had arrived

clumsy and bold-breasted

on the last snow

that came

like the first.

Here the robin stayed

small and poised

to see the winter through—

this bare, green winter

that would’ve been even longer

without it.

The doves welcomed me back,

side by side in the open sway of the lilac.

The blackbird teased with its company;

so often my only company.

This is some old writing, the opening pages of a journal I did while living in England, written after returning from a visit to the States. I offer it for all those who have, at some time, experienced being transplanted in one way or another.




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