The Swallow

Out of the New Moon,
the Sun is a fire reborn
to dance amid gossamer rain,
peach blossom petals
floating on the wings of any
merry breeze.

Freed at last
of winter’s stone,
from the mountain heights
my waters rage with joy,
plunging to meet life,
to drench and then
be quenched in the melody
of my songbird.

But where is she?

The spray from my falls
finds her cypress perch vacant,
her flowered dells empty,
her feathered flights but a memory.

I, who cannot contain myself,
constantly revisit our meeting-place
with what conscious focus I can muster,
to find a sign, a message, a trace of you.

At last, the winds have pity:
with a gentle flourish,
a single feather is dislodged
from its cypress home
to drift in my swirling wake.

As I cherish this jewel
along the length and breath
of my flowing soul,
the winds play on the pine branches
the echo of your song.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen