Geese are flying south for winter,
Honking air traffic control signals,
Exhorting weary ones to pick up the pace.
How do they find home
without a strategic plan and GPS?
What Invisible Knowing
knows The Way?
What Archer forms the squabble into a single arrow,
and hurls the gaggle into the promise of the empty sky?
As my winter approaches,
the only reliable compass.
My weary wings
surrender to the sky-wedge
and find their rhythm.
Nimbus striving eases into cumulus clarity,
and the flight path of soul truth
comes without effort,
as I glide through the full emptiness,
guided by a Grace I’ve never known
into the headwinds.