The perhaps grows

Not like sunflowers in an empty field
with great, golden heads turned to the light.
More like the gathering of geese
along the shore of a forgotten creek.
Noisome, honking and cackling.
So many poets have answered that call,
rejoicing in the sounds of Mother Nature.
The voices of the ones who have gone before us
echo in the canyons made by dried up streams.
Perhaps if we wait until the mixing is done
we will find friends previously unknown
coming towards us, not with arms outstretched,
but with steps of sacred recognition,
yearning to be held and to hold.