The Geese Cry Out

Tares make their own way

squeeze into each furrow sown

Wheat,

Rye,

Alfalfa,

Corn, Beets, Spuds.

Uranium,

rich and dangerous,

cuts veins through

Schist, Shale,

Sandstone, Slate.

Irrigation ditches divide pastures

dug at right angles to fences,

laid out just so by pioneer fathers,

demarcate that which concerns us,

from that which does not.

The left hand knows not

what the right hand has wrought:

Things knew their places,

Until my generation.

We cry out in confusion as we migrate,

East to Massachussetts,

South to California.

Like so many geese flying overhead,

Cousins honk out secrets,

one did not know that the other didn’t know:

"Honk!...Gave them nothing!"

"Honk!...Died destitute!"

"Honk!... Thru the window!"



Forgive us–we did not,

do not, know the lay of this land.

The clan’s unmentioned names,

the Dead,

furtive amid late

Great Grandmother’s letters,

whisper,

so we did not hear them:

"You kin come home now--

He did not die."



Andrea L. Seek 5/23/2007