Ladder of Arrows by John Swain
At last the low grey hawk
left shadows on the grasses
before the opening of stone
for the ghost procession.
I stepped into the intervals
of air alive in resistance
like a musical hiatus
when the wind moved
rippling over me like the creek.
I put moss and red splinters
into my mouth like a risk
when I loved this presence
existing to thrill and change.
I climbed a ladder of arrows
from night water to the sky.
Author bits:
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Crisis Chronicles Press published his most recent chapbook, White Vases.
left shadows on the grasses
before the opening of stone
for the ghost procession.
I stepped into the intervals
of air alive in resistance
like a musical hiatus
when the wind moved
rippling over me like the creek.
I put moss and red splinters
into my mouth like a risk
when I loved this presence
existing to thrill and change.
I climbed a ladder of arrows
from night water to the sky.
Author bits:
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Crisis Chronicles Press published his most recent chapbook, White Vases.
1 comment:
Wonderful work as always, John.
Post a Comment