Aoibh’s Children in Expectation
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There is a swan-crossed sea
  where exiles flew to die,
where grey waves wash the greyer shore
  in ponderous lullaby.
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An old king’s children cry
  their swan tears to the sea,
wandering on their wasted shore
  through long eternity,
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for they cannot restore
  their ruptured dignity,
but stretch their savaged wings toward sky,
  above the swan-crossed sea.
Contrary Silence
I am awake within the night,
  and quiet is rendered loud
  under the vast star-crowd.
Hovering, they hum. Though lightning-bright
  they seem small, like a word
  forgotten or unheard.
I see them dance as they ignite.
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They echo a beginning thought,
  and I search for my ears
  to hear while music spheres
the earth, until I think I’ve caught
  a bit of melody.
  It slips, eluding me
with words whose meaning I’ve forgot.
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For what do I know of this sky?
  Far older than all sight
  these stars converge their light
upon a planet’s moment, high
  and far from me, and stark
  on the void. But in the dark
a whip-poor-will begins his cry.
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He laughs. Perhaps I understand
  why he should look above
  and sing something of love
to the night. Primordial command
  disturbs his heart to sing
  with stars, and everything
which knows an orchestrating hand.
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As must we, who trace words and tales
  between the lines of stars.
  They tide their reservoirs
of harmony where hearing fails,
  but some whispering spills
  through stars and whip-poor-wills.
In starlight old belief prevails.
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Brightly they sing, though not for me,
  and I may know their songs
  are true, that truth belongs
in such laughing solemnity.
  You rupture darkness, friends;
  with you, my soul ascends
the night’s shores toward eternity.
Sarah Spivey is an MFA student with the University of St. Thomas and teaches rhetoric at a classical Christian school in Oklahoma City.