Healing Poems 350

When the sun returns

it is hallelujah time,
the swallows tracing an arc
of praise just off our balcony,
the mountains snow-sparkling
in gratitude.
Here is our real life —
a handful of possible peonies
from the market —
the life we always intended,
swallow life threading
the city air with
our weaving joy.
Are we this simple, then,
to sing all day — country songs,
old hymns, camp tunes?
We even believe
the swallows, keeping time.
~ Sarah Browning


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