Swimming Again to Meet You,

along some enclosed lane where I pass you
swimming in the other direction.

Decades, I swam into changing light
that guided me to temporary rest—

So I begin again—

the long drive in the northbound lane,
up the highway to the farm.

Returned to your house, I let myself
down into the water of our lives

where you waited, cooking, looking
for my car crossing the creek bridge.

I leave and return,
leave, return,
and always, there you are,
wondering how
I manage to do everything
I do. Who is this daughter?

If you are swimming in the next lane now,
I hope you look into my life.
Know I write to you in languages of two lifetimes:
yours and mine,
remembering
warm meals, sewn clothing,
long phone calls,
worry, worry, tears.

In Mist and Gray Light

Look into the distance,
the wind whispers.
A mountain moves toward me,
half lit, silent. Its silhouette shades
one side of a passing car, same color,
same make, my brother drove.

Across the great meadow,
summoned by crows, bear, and deer
lope along old paths. Today,
a gale winters the grass.

I pull my coat tightly around me,
remember those buried in the land.
Once,this range peered above clouds,
spilled stones into distant rivers.
When these ridges rise again,

and pass over our bones,
the long filaments of families
will disappear. Still, we run
toward them, open-mouthed, arms wide.

Roselyn Elliott is the author of four poetry chapbooks: Ghost of the Eye, Animals Usher Us to Grace, and At the Center, (Finishing Line Press), and The Separation of Kin (Blueline Magazine chapbook award, SUNY Potsdam). Her poems and essays are published in The Minnesota Review, New Letters, Diode, and many other magazines. A teacher and editor, she lives in Richmond, Va.