The Cashions

Swallows comb the lake’s top.
In full abandon they are their clearest. In motion, no movement.

No tides to pull in and to embark.
No reveal nor molding.
No breakdown, stone to sand, bark to glass.
River swirl, bay walls. Swans move through the curve of the inlet,
their cygnets melt in dying sun.

“Not buried, but set free.” You say from the front seat. Rental car in your home town, cemetery surrounded by highway. Still peaceful somehow. Homecomings in the name of burials. I see her young, riding her bike through these avenues. Family homes, another’s.
I’ll probably never come back here.

So, I pen the swallows that make ripples like fire.
Serenity like fire. I think of every vignette of me in the backseat. Child to cradling urns by my lap.
“Do you think about heaven? Do you think about me?”

I think I’ll take this too with me. My Mother dancing in the wind. We’re fragmented, but built by the same porcelain. I think I’ll take this too with me. Cathedral glass, “though our outer self is continuing to decay, our inner self is being renewed day by day.” I think I’ll take this too with me.
Red roses your resting place, soften with the earths sigh.

I think I’ll take this this too with me.