SoC 3:1

Migration

No one goes in the old man’s room,
anymore, the door is closed. He lies
in hospital these four seasons
with open mouth and eyes quite shut.
It’s foggy now, November,
and the house is silent

except overhead and out of sight
the wild geese are honking south,
their communal lonely call
that magnifies the stillness.
Oh, they know the ways
of leaving.