Agnes Vojta


Your feet are walking
the same earth as mine.
Your eyes look up
at the same sky.
You bare your skin
to the same sun
that shines on me.
We are connected
through distance and time.

Maybe some raindrops
that fall on me
were once part of the creek
in which you swim.
Maybe some molecules
of the air I breathe
passed through your lungs
before the wind
blew them my way.

And the wild geese
that fly overhead
passed over your house
on their Northward journey,
and you heard
their hoarse voices,
and you, too, felt
a strange longing.

Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and started writing poetry as a child. She spent a few years in California, Oregon, and England, and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019) and The Eden of Perhaps (Spartan Press, 2020), and her poems  have appeared in a variety of magazines. Her website is

1 comment:

  1. What a lovely poem. so gentle and tender, especially love the ref. to Geese.


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