Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Rite of passage

The long hollow bone
of a swan carved into
a modest flute, its call
the wraithlike echo thin
as the wrists of the girl, hair
a dark stream tumbling,
rippled as a child’s
faith in the narrow
true line of the horizon

Torn, shifting hills
into valleys, the old
into the young
as the long hollow call
of the flute drives the swans
thundering skyward
smooth wings beating,
the wraithlike echo thin

Rachel Westfall
January 15, 2014