Craft Circles with Wings of Grace

They knitted a universe, as lovers often do--
sat on a white balcony, drank lemonade,
in a feast full of sun, they simmered
in the scent of strawberries,
until the mango flesh sky squeezed dry--
sticky with summer heat,
they made love between cotton sheets.

They will die one day--
then meet again in a moonbeam,
in a sparrow's nest, in a cloud of dust.
They are interwoven--
a basket rendered by nature's hands,
delicate designs that snap so readily,
like twigs on a foot trail.

Two swallows fly fast across the horizon,
craft circles with wings of grace,
over Montana, the Cascades,
over redwoods and rivers
until Life sings one day,
in a dream, in a moment,
when the wind kisses their ears
mid-flight.

It is time, little ones
time for the sleep of centuries--
your seconds of breath
have slipped beneath your wings.

One day again they will melt
in each other's feathered plumage,
in lava flow and volcano ash,
in the gallop of mustangs,
in a land of scarlet buds
and prickly pears.