The Swan of my Youth

 

I awoke in the middle of a summer night,

To see her resting outside my window,

Reposing on a patch of lilacs, crashed

Flowers under her sparse plumage, looking out-of-place,

And out-of-time, depleted after many summers

Of migrating between the many lakes,

Searching for food or friendship or refuge from

The ill-tempered geese.

Unfurling her long neck, she assumed the pale moon,

And conveyed her solemn song with dignity.

My mother painted a self-portrait

That now hangs in my apartment,

I am staring at that painting now,

Remembering how, in her final days,

She retreated into her room,

And held herself there--above all of nature--

Without the taint of fear.

I remember when I rushed into her room, crying

How she poised herself,

Without a single feather stirring.