Poetry: The Lost Migration

the morning dew is hardly rising
sunlight on the far horizon
yet in the violet murk, you spy them
wild geese beneath the northern star

the birds, they fly in no formation
scattered wings catching loose dreams
feathers falling from the seams
kiss the grass like winter’s final snow

and at their flutter, you remember
the tidings of a dark December
a solstice marred by solemn loss
of what you’d fettered to your soul

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