Swallows
You wait for them while the snow rots on the south slopes and the lake ice withdraws from the margins under a blue sky that holds their sweet rush home And at last there they are on the same day that recedes into forever, slicing the turns of freedom and showing you their green backs in their flight over the decaying rafts to mock the early gulls They come to the old bones of high trees over roof tops and boxes on poles, into the shadow of gables arcing through the warm days roused from their wintering You know each one of them and their lyrics aloft and familiar, the revelry of places seen, a comfort like an old song sewn to your heart And if you die before the fledglings burst into flight, know that they will always return with a piece of you, weaving your thoughts of them over the willows and reeds, affirming the promises of May ...