(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.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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