Swallows

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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
 
 
 

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