Swallow

Each April they return,
Waypoint of geography and soul.
The sky sparkling alight,
with the fever of their homecoming.

Each September they leave,
Waypoint of geography and soul.
The sky dimming ember,
with the emptiness of their going.

Each point between is like preperation.
Song and Play and Distance,
merging in a melody of self.
Bringing purpose and life
within the explanation of a wingbeat.

On Being Right Perhaps

How often one needs two things,

And how unfair to expect from her, just one.

Intelligent sex and lost abandon,

company and solitude,

the gifts of love in friendships' perfume.

He however liked the day to day

of the important unimportance.

And the livable moments of quiet serenity,

the knowing of her sound,

and the comfort of hands amongst the inevitable losses.

She, he thought, felt those things too.

And despite not being enough for her either,

we lived in our mind these same two things.

Accepting each day's music,

dancing when we might in the moments of enough.

Those obeying man made rules would decry,

human variation and the vanity of choice.

They would seek to change another's soul

and in their 'knowing' mourn,

for the sadness of the eventual.

They may well be right, perhaps...

But who can say the joys that accrue,

to the needy, over a lifetime of loves' search,

we should forsake?

Can you place a hand over your own heart,

and say, the precious moments of anything,

were not worth all that was sought,

and all that was risked in the losing.