Circling as a Shadow

some days I wake
to rustles in the garden
sounds of tiny life moving among the rocks
some days I look out and see the shadow of a hawk
crossing the water of the pond

I breathe
and listen to the rhythms of memory
and songs of the dead 
on those days I cannot rest
on those days I cannot be gentle
on those days I remember another song
the war song I sing for the Mother
on those days I become the hawk
circling as a shadow

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I really like this poem.