When the sun returns

it is hallelujah time,

the swallows tracing an arc

of praise just off our balcony,

the mountains snow-sparkling

in gratitude.

Here is our real life — 

a handful of possible peonies

from the market — 

the life we always intended,

swallow life threading

the city air with

our weaving joy.

Are we this simple, then,

to sing all day — country songs,

old hymns, camp tunes?

We even believe

the swallows, keeping time.