the birds know long before I
of this coming, this winter, the aching moans
of geese raining warnings
from the late summer sky.
most will soon be leaving,
sailing the invisible seams of gravity,
heading south ahead of the freeze.
but we will stay on,
as the days fall away.
I am the heir to generations of winter,
and winter will I leave
to my sons.
we are all Jacobs in this long night,
wrestling our angels — I will not release you
until you bless me. what
is your name?
we all crave grace, the unmerited gift
of exemption, yet we each must make this flight
alone, each must face
the coming of night,
each must rise beyond
the utility of words, passing through
on wings of angels, echoing
their aching moans
each of us flying south, each of us
heading for home
J.A. Fink © 2013