Merely the hem of the skirted storm, pretty and neat, and small.
Canada Geese dropped to the pond in our midst.
We, dropping to sleep, heard a single soft honk,
one meant to assure: All clear.
Morning light scatters.
A still surface shields more fluid dark shimmers;
rafts of icy scrim reflect the snow.
Inlets form two tangent pools—ventricles of one heart.
Pliant as skin, ice yields to the geese. They bead the snow-banked edge,
assembling as though the pond might speak.
In reply they'll compose themselvesas a poem.
For the sky, the silver of tarnished sterling; on the ground, petals
a pale rose.
©2015 Ravenna Taylor