In the soft goldness of the morning the plaintive calls arrive first pulling them along the cloudless height
are the swoosh of wings beating at the air
morning after morning like clockwork sometimes
this northern girl shades her eyes while peering into the heavens
my heart follows them
All this talk of saving souls.
Souls weren’t made to save,
like Sunday clothes that give out at the seams
They’re made for wear; they come with lifetime guarantees.
Don’t save your soul.
Pour it out like rain on cracked, parched earth.
Give your soul away, or pass it like a candle flame.
Sing it out, or laugh it up the wind.
Souls were made for hearing breaking hearts,
for puzzling dreams, remembering August flowers,
These men who talk of saving souls!
They have the look of bullies
who blow out candles before you sing happy birthday,
and want the world to be in alphabetical order.
I will spend my soul,
playing it out like sticky string
so I can catch every last thing I touch.
in darkness descending cerulean to black
a surprise bursting out of night in harsh
they rested quietly upon the silver flash
of still water
white cheeked upon black neck white contrast
to the dark obscurity that rests opposite daylight
a whole flock lately returned from southern sojourns
skeins soaring across the sky
now in gentle quiescence
small trees grow in summer where they rest
the water recedes, gives way to dry ground
for now, it is home and as I round the bend
they stay with me in perfect
diane o’leary 2009