Of those things held like nectar
in the soul, the pearls of fidelity
are lustrous in the unveiling
of each day, are strung and clasped
from hope to hope that illuminates
the dark, as when, year after year,
swallows take refuge in our eaves,
and we hear a soft chirrup, chirrup —
music that serenades summer days,
urging us to fly like fledglings
over meadow and shore–we are
wingless in our frailty, but deliberate
from moment to moment. In darkness
we strive for the heavens, each arc
of the swallows woven into the fabric
of dusk, a seam between light
and shadow, our emissaries of longing.
What we cannot fathom, falls away, yet
stays as they carve memory into the wind,
and we sleep, waiting for their return.
