(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
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