Member Poem

I come to the city park and see him feed
from an old lady’s hand, this crippled goose,
a gander, whose great wings are of no use.
(when young, he gorged on far too much stale bread.)

He’d watched his flock take to the sky, and heard
their honks grow fainter, fainter, this wild bird
now nibbling oats and seed from a trembling hand
(which got him through last winter on the pond).

Their bond is clear as the thin ice on the water,
clear as the icicles melting on the spruce.
They long for their lost friends. None will applaud her
for caring. Famished foxes on the loose
may catch him, or the elements may get him.
Yet look how he sidesteps when she tries to pet him!