I am one of those lost northern geese
blown here in the night
on wings that now falter,
my certain, feathered grip now loosened
in the thin high mountain air.
Where I used to soar, I now drift.
Where I once lifted my voice, I can no longer sing.
I wander in place
hunting for pebbles of gold to tuck
into my craw.
But I find there is no gold left for me here.
Just the grey dust of granite softened first by grief, then
pounded by unforgiving stone until it is inert.
Silt.
I fill my mouth with this raw, battered clay.
I swallow. Choke.
I am profoundly gravid with death.
Only gold will melt in this crucible I hold.
I must find new metal
out of which to make myself new wings,
a new song, perhaps even a new heart.
Earthbound, I fail: Where is my Morning Star?
