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Wednesday, May 11, 2016

White Swan

As I pull my way onto the bridge
a swan flies across and over it
something I have seen before
once, somewhere in a scattered past

Now she’s back
her neck craned
and huge wings
beating hard

She seems as if she’s soaring
relative to my misdirected path
making a mockery
of my transition

Colors are ceded to youth,
nests, to their season,
while pathways
are borrowed from the sky

They pierce the fringes
of the soul
and then

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