Maybe we don’t have souls after all
but just die like dogs,
howling behind fences
in the dark.

Let me go empty,
falling without grace upon white sheets,
crisp and perfect,
positioned for effect.

Let me fall empty,
with a cool calm shiver of release,
upon an un-creased bed
at evening.

Let the dog bark freely,
his evensong resound,
and sing no song of praise for me,
no song that’s heaven bound.


Swans in the air this morning
over the ridge,
brought to mind the myth
of the old man of the forest
who scanned the skies for cranes
and wild geese,
translated the language of the trees
and mountains into symphonies
that set the mind on fire
when I was young enough
to believe that
a swan could be a mystical being,
or a man could be reborn.

Oh, for such belief now.
Swans in the air this morning,

And music to transform the day.