Poetry

Swansong

They say that swans
though mute,
sing when they are about to die,
and I believe it.

Creation is full
of such elegies.

Look at the leaves in fall,
restless in their green dresses
exchange them for gowns
of bright orange and red,
and dance and dance
until they fall...
and cold, white silence moves in.

It is not at high noon,
but as the sun slowly melts,
that roses and flame
streak the sky;
and lovers young and old,
walk along the beach
and kiss.

The day is always brightest
just before the night.

This is how I know
that I am not dead.

Rachel Fox