Yesterday, more than 200 swans graced the shallows of salmon arm bay. They ate heartily, napped in the grass and prepared for the long northern trip. I am off to see them this morning, unless first light was the signal to fly. They are so evocative of fairy tale worlds memories of my daughters curled tightly against me as we read hans christian andersen’s seven swans in bedtimes long ago. I know how my day begins today, and the following attachment tells of the ending of day, on this date a few years back. The what lies between is the unknown. Off I go to find out how that page writes itself.
almost in the dream place,
i heard the moon whispering
so softly
whispering.
i slipped on your warm jacket
and with my slippers inside your boots
i stepped into the night.
my breath made halo moons
warm in the night air.
something walking in the woods
made the sound of weighted steps
but oh, the world was quiet
and smelled of wet things.
spring in cedars
spring in pine trees
spring in birch bark.
wispy branched arms swayed
in the moonlight
in the dreamplace
where i am clothed in
your clothes and
my soulskin
april fool beneath the march moon.
lookuntilyousee 