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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) Swallows become the sun, letting their gold eyes cast light on wisteria vines and earth still moist from last night's rain. Soon, they will take refuge under my roof; and each morning I’ll wake to the bustle of birds patching their nest, complaining in fretful song. I won’t need a clock. They start at 6 a.m. The Spanish tiles will loosen a little more and so will my own qualms to rise and resume a personal dream. Back to pens and sketch pad, this time school will seem beautiful. I’m past thirty and wearing sheer wind on my shoulder blades instead of stone. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) 
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