Homeward bound today, I drove beneath

a paragraph or so of geese, in the process

of writing themselves across the cumulus:

just straggling letters upon a blank screen.

As much as I could, and still drive, I read

the happy ending: prodigals that return,

our beloved who come back and forgive,

more Mays and Junes than we deserve.

A woman, a stranger, beside the Interstate,

also looked up; I knew, watching her eyes,

that she could read. I didn't go too fast

to see that she liked what she interpreted.

It has been written of me that I am

a treasure in a clay pot, and tonight

this clay pot overflows with love for such

legible geese, and a woman by the road.

Russell Rowland