The Leaving V
Suddenly,
out of its stale and drowsy lair
snow describes the steeples.
We imagine hands there,
pulling out sheets to love and dress
the rooftops and lawns.
The season's back to blank,
the same look from trees.
Evening opens up, washed out, weak.
Flat on our backs,
we watch an angle of geese,
greater than us, honking, laughing -
we must know which -
as they take color with them
south in their leaving V.