Saturday, April 9


for two, maybe three seasons of flight,
his absence has left a shadow on the heart

still, the eye scans the shallows
for a glimpse of the arched neck,
the poppy-colored beak
made famous in another poem

about Swans,
how their grace causes the breath
to catch in the throat
like the memory of a lost love

who too has left a shadow on the heart

Front Porch

plastic orange flags
flap frantically in the breeze
between newly-leafed trees
and sweet spring grass

who know,
in their state of natural being
how to bend, to sway, to swoon
at the touch of a breeze,

their fickle dance partner