The rising island moves in light
as lake waves cut deep coves
unseen from the ancient stone ridge.
Freed to receive
a trembling vision in the aspen and birch,
leaves sound vibrating a canopy bell
electric in my arms
I stand transfixed among.
Exhausted in my sweat
as clothes dry on the open shore,
fox shadows run from a hanging bandana.
I taste the clean water on my tongue
and then only the sun in blue.
Quiet and alone the heights wander
lakes within the lake,
a rainstorm pillars in the distance
while the water in my metal cup
looms like the harvest sky.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.
Post a Comment