Your memory fades
on a winter day,
all taciturn -
like the slow
migration of geese.
Nesting only momentarily,
then lifting quickly
in a flash of wings -
sabotaging this landscape.

In their absense
my mind is silent -
without the whirl
of their wings
against the snow.

A thirsty mind,
grasping each
fading memory
and running my
fingers through
the feathers -
each one is a treasure
for it might be
the last.