Migration

The rowan trees are turning brown
In my home town
And it has flown
This courage thing
That I held in my hand
Like a ripe, red haw.

Today I am a stranger
On strange land
Face-down in the sand.
I struggle
Like a bird with clipped wings.
I am stranded
In an unknown map
No way to navigate the winds.
I feel it near, the danger ...

Of not rising
Of no song
Of silence suffocating
And the land going on and on
Of strength that cannot wager
On a heart all worn and done.

previous poem