by Catherine van Tatenhove
This morning I woke up to the sound of the barn swallows.
I think they knew what they were doing, prodding me awake.
The blue on their bodies barely visible as I shook the sleep from my hair.
They asked me if I’d seen the sun, if I’d seen how it warms them and
how it could warm me.
How it could set me aglow.
And I wanted to find a way to thank them.
As if gratitude could somehow make them promise to never stop.
As if the very sound that made me believe in the dawning of a new day
didn’t come from the belly of a barn swallow.
And as if I hadn’t once thought only you could let the light pour in.
Catherine Van Tatenhove lives and works in New York City as a social worker. She graduated from Baylor University with degrees in International Studies, French, and Poverty Studies. When she is not working or writing, she is rock climbing, running, or reading memoirs.