Between moves, going through boxes of stuff, 
discerning what I want to bring with me

from what I am ready to throw away,
I discovered some fragments of poems

I began during my first marriage.
There is a piece from at least ten years ago

about a week we spent in winter
at my former in-laws’ house in Delaware. 

One day I heard a tremendous honking noise
coming from outside, at a great distance. 

I stepped into the yard, looked up, and saw
hundreds of snow geese flying overhead, 

en route to Bombay Hook Wildlife Refuge
where each year they rest on their migration. 

A few dozen flew opposite the rest.
Most turned around with the larger skein. 

Some did not, as if they could reverse 
the seasons to their nesting grounds in spring. 

The pain of divorce devastated me. 
For a time, I was bitter and withdrawn, 

unable to accept an era was over. 

Now, I can recall moments of contentment 
from this past partnership, before

there was discord and betrayal, while aware
I am better off in my new marriage. 

Similar to that vast flock moving on
with such determination, I can tell 

the direction forward. But different 
from them who mate for life and always 

go back to where they hatched their eggs, 
I know these poems I found are remnants 

of a place I will not return.