The Migrations (Kirsten Dierking)

The last of the geese are out on the lake
in a final circle of open water,
wings folded close to the body,
white breasts bared to the cold.

Beautiful how the sharp black
of the birds' necks arches against
the silver light, sways over
the sheer veneer of glinting ice.

The snow begins, a little, softly,
like a slanting veil falling between
your hands and the birds. You try
to keep what you love close, and yet
you love things that can't help leaving.

The geese are slipping farther from land,
receding into the thickening whiteness.
How distant they are already from home.
How far they are going away from you now.

Maybe it's because my little sister's in Brigadoon this summer,

but I think "A Map of Love" sounds really amazing in a Scottish accent. That's right. Scroll down a page and find that poem. Read it out loud in your best, softest brogue. Or track down a hot laddie/lass to murmur it to you. In the earliest part of the morning, if you can stand it, or perhaps after a nap. (Don't you DARE blame this on me to your significant other.) Poetry reading sometimes owes a great deal to context and setting. I find this poem is most useful when memorized...