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
depart.
No comments:
Post a Comment