The Sweet Swindle of Spring

A door slams, a child leaves
looking over her shoulder
and the old left behind
look for gifts hidden in mirrors
in this village
where all the locks open with one key

Leaning back on the knees of soil
under the moon’s ivoried light
the earth sighs and settles
dirt ripens

green holds the hill
as our visions grow tender
and the great millstone of heaven
grinds exceedingly slow, exceedingly fine.

A woman opens her throat to the moon.
Her breath descends like a veil on a stone flower.
Her songs echo the sweet swindle of spring
where birds flutter like lost messages

where the river’s dark arms are so inviting
and night blooming flowers spread their petals like
the soft mouths of women
saying something wonderful.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | Invocation