Monday, May 12, 2008


bone-cold silence, songbirds
stilled by grief
clasping memory which slips
away like

a breath, exhaled

a dream of

running high on the wind
this wind, a kite soaring
over, weaving under

walk with me, little one-
it is too soon to fly

Rachel Westfall
May 12, 2008


Andrea, Ontario said...

As I read Swing I felt waves of sadness flowing over me, read it second time and again wanted to cry, must be some heavy feelings attached to this beautiful poem.

RachelW said...

Thanks for your thoughts, Andrea. This is one of those odd poems that sort of happened on its own-- I'm not entirely sure where it came from.

mike-mike said...

The 'Angel' who left the Yukon, meets up with the "Angel' who took her place. And here you are, old souls connect once again swinging into the present to "swing" into the future :) But where did you both come from? I wonder where.

*Love & Light*