A bit of an introduction is in order, I believe, for this poem–and yes, I am calling it a poem, because it employs my friend Nita’s definition of poetry: “the best word in the best order.” Technically, I think this is a prose poem, and hope to be doing more of these from now on. It was very freeing to do after being locked in to 5-7-5 for so long.
by Julie Sumner
Snowy fog emanates from the still-summer-warm lake. It is October in Tennessee, trees in the ochre, plum, and coral of a southern fall. The geese have stopped here-for the whole winter? For just a day? How do they read their instinctive itinerary? Making a great racket, they wing into flight by fours and sixes–forming lines, angles, and ellipses. Feathers and noise above the water, they circle, form one gentle apex heading further south. For a long moment, they are silent but for the sound of twenty wings beating, beating, beating, reverberating off the hills, engulfing the lake, echoing my own heart.