The Geese Don'T Know What Day It Is Poem by S. R. Lavin

In Second Milo (New York) I remember
in complete detail my grandfather driving
the back roads of rural Massachusetts,
how we would stop in a glen and eat cherries
which he kept in a giant paper sack.

He always knew the shady place along the way
where we should stop and recollect ourselves.

A swallow darts past me, reviving me,
as I speed over the landscape
and in my reverie I think “this is heaven.”

Or, what heaven could be….

such as I was, one of these, fully human
in all my weaknesses and all that was beautiful.

The geese soar overhead, squawking
on their way to better feeding grounds.