unyet

I wait in Aprils avid yearn

to hear the cuckoos call return

to listen out and listen well

returning echoes stories tell…

A year ago or almost such

I waited long and worried much

and in my worry failed to trust

that sacred ways enfold as must.

Ten thousand miles of back and forth

three seasons south, one season north

on wings which taste saharan dust

migration moves in nature’s thrust.

Averse to perils own intent

from eggs their own predicament

to progenate our friends aspire,

true destiny its own desire.

On solo wings they fly at night

set course upon a pilgrims plight

and somehow know their lifes direction,

mystic natures own perfection.

True cuculus please know i wait

with bated breath to hear thy fate,

to hear thine call from woodlands yonder

knowing i rejoice thy wonder.