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