All the cell phone towers are pagodas

from the top floor through my near-sighted eyes—

blue, white, red shimmering houses

for ancient gods among the fir trees and dogwood.

They climb the hills to the cemetery, carrying

the voices of the living far above the lost

chatter of those already gone before us.
The words are like raindrops in a summer storm

here then gone, sadness borne away

over the continents. And love

or the failure of love, wounds and caresses.

The seas wander underneath.

Somewhere in this forest of voices

a pen is writing in blue ink.
Joan Swift died on March 13, at age 90. In arrangement with Cave Moon Press, we've named her our April Poet in Residence, and are running four poems from her this month, all from the upcoming book The Body that Follows Us.

Previously: "Listening to My Bones", and "Shin-Ichi’s Tricycle".