John Swain, 3/11


Tapestries of hawks unfurled limitless as western sky
as mountains shattered the reflection of sun on water,
my singing ancestors wrapped their throats with halo fire.
The ground of leaves slipped between the white trees
where I tried to rejoin the future of days ever glowing,
but this silence flooded like rivers in a chapel emptiness.
I buried a pocket of coins and feasted on broken bread
as laying stones held the shine
in angles of the ecstatic roof the dead climbed into eyes.
I wear their new skin interlaced with a zodiac bestiary
and drank the voice piercing the wolf to speak my own
as the earth arose from itself and through our growth.


The Blue Corridor

I walked the blue corridor of accepting stone,
the cool wall beside held close a towering hill
and the smooth floor beneath raised the creek
like the burdening weight of my turning year.
Then I let go of futile and hurting impatience,
but after release stillness became my enemy,
a knife ignited fire in the kindling of my wrist,
reborn I saw the silhouetting of a golden eagle.

Promote. Poetry.
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