Thursday, April 3, 2014

A swim

all stop

we gather in prayer
       of course. of course! this moment,
            more than most, impels it.

this hovering: not our own doing, after all
amid these tents of green light, and of cold, these folds of glass
      these cascading rays

          this harpy song of the sea, everywhere and always,
we may not hear until

we are in it, above it, 
         of it.
we think ourselves angels
— or what mistake in us we may call angelic —
when in that moment the muscles of our hands
         pull and lock

         we release a calm salty sigh, no longer afraid,
              made new

to close the circle.

one of us prays above the wind
     we, connected, accept it:
for this grace of hovering, we fluorescent crown
     of eight daisies, bobbing;
for those awaiting and away;
for those going back,
       for those going on.

released, we act on prayer
swimming our way: home, or farther still,
flying as we think angels fly.
we are more than the turmoil that suspends us,
     but not much more. in pitch and soar,
breathing fast now,

we hope for home
     raking the canyon slopes, ever in change,
     bridge of gold in sight, wealth of ships, end of land.
we hope to return just new enough for those
awaiting and away

     we think ourselves angels

shawn c turner