The Flocculation

by
Phil Specht

The Flocculation
Let me fly south a goose,
ice thin, I can still get loose.
Hear just now the call.
Escape from here this fall.
Earth’s angle never fails to state,
there is a date, if not too late,
where leaving, even just in time,
preserves a memory, perhaps only mine.
A golden tree, flocculated with snow,
those leaves will fall, it’s time to go.