As May draws to a close, we still wait for the world to welcome us all to new ways of travelling. We will have to wait a little longer, but the pandemic has been a great master, and we become a little more patient.
This poem touched my heartstrings. I am to wait, and watch the Wild Geese fly.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
The other day, I saw the swallows fly. I was up high, high on a hill with a view spilled below.
Like them, I could not go. I could not be them in somewhere soon.
Like the smallest of them, on the earth, in the earth, of the earth
I knew my journey was undaunted.