Migration and Transmigration
The thought of ancients not set down in words
Cannot be weighed. That they were like our own
About the cleanest things is clear. Those birds
That wing their ways in autumn’s bluest zone
Above the reach of men and weapons mean
The same things in the chest of everyone.
Our hearts and even modern souls can glean
At least a hint of former minds. The sun
That settles in the sacred evening west
Will always bear the same red doctrine through
The mind. Religions cannot change the quest
No matter how distinct, the old and new.
We feel an unnamed loss on seeing geese
….Defy the winter. That brings longing peace.
~ Phillip Whidden