Dune over dune to the grey lake roll,
a hawk in the fog
of wilderness sky and the jack pines.
As the waving shoreline climbs its height,
I stitched to pitcher’s thistle
when the raining lady flew in amber.
The empty miles follow
the howl of the gale beating its heart
in my heart.
Then with a massasauga coil,
the basin of the glaciers returns to mother blue,
waves drum the flat stone and agates.
I turned my side to the crashing water
and dove beneath its changing mirror
with her whitecap pinion in this rift,
the farther sky I see.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.
Post a Comment