Untitled: Mark Maloney

Pointing west
above tender needles of pine
a flock of swallows
wings breathless to the source of all secrets.
The steady heartbeat of the waves
quiets every nocturnal bell and murmur
and the earth beneath my feet
becomes a carpet to the stars descending.
Holy ground, lost then conquered,
Your spirit yearns to be remembered
and touched again by those
whose orbs once spun here,
Dancing the rhythms
of a million days and a million nights.
Unclouded, my gaze can see
what is there and what is not,
but my tongue though fearless
is dumb to say exactly how
the land came to marry the wind
or hold every loving thing – including me –
in its gentle and ancient regard.

– Mark Maloney
St. Louis, MO