A mist rises
over lakewater,
sunlight settles
a black mirror
beneath wings, ears
we notch upward
these tiny hours.

A found resting,
we bring nothing
in hand---breadcrumbs
and pocket virtue.
Goose-mothers know
these shaking hands
perspire themselves.

Our hope-prayers,
thin lines dangled,
wants despite need,
fears we clutch
as babes, bosoms
we won't let go.
Oh, lakewater,

heave them weight-gone,
hear deeps crying
to deeper pools,
our puffed blank words
before time spilled
downward, fledgling,
goslings in tow.

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