August 11, 2017

I have grown down into feathers,
fat and waddling among willows.

My swimming is too busy; I watch,
learn to torque a neck, arch wings

in air. But with every paddle, swing
and glide, I am this self; swans fly

where there are no feathers,
trees, leaf or sky. I circle

the gate, construct fence posts,
hammer and beat them endlessly.

With every thought I intend a swan,
beg flight against the weight of stones.

Barbara Lee