When I was a child I told my spiritual father
that I had moments of insight,
fashes of understanding, like the wings of swallows
swooping into a city with a message to tell
that humankind must remember.
It was beyond explaining to grown-ups,
though I knew I had to help save them.
My spiritual father said,
“Remember these moments that come to you.
Remember, write them down,
Or they will slip away like birds.”
And I watch the way my thoughts fly
like they do not want to be captured,
cannot be told once and for all time
in the tradition of writing.
I follow the swallows out to the fields,
a pair of lovebirds chasing each other,
friends of the light.
How carefully close they come to the dark earth,
the tall grass brushing their scintillant feathers
like breath, one word of beauty before leaving,
a reminder to humankind
who is forgetful.