by John P. Kristofco
in autumn clouds
above the church,
twenty, maybe thirty geese
align like praying hands,
aimed at something promised
by the wisdom of their hollow bones,
agate eyes acknowledging the sun;
they sweep above our sanctuaries,
sidewalks,
all the places where we leave our lives behind,
in whatever faith we find
to move us through the mist, the clear
driven by some covenant
like wind that moves their wings against the clouds
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing