Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
William Butler Yeats, "The Wild Swans At Coole"
While she lay ill, I took my beau
swan-gazing at Halsey's Pond
but I wept - the brittle cat-tails
mirrored Mom's split-hair, dead-end.
When swans flew down, the water spilled;
among what rushes will they build?
Migrant trumpeters' final flight
called for the ballad of Polly Von -
bride of a lovelorn lonely hunter
who took her white apron for a swan.
Our brief unraveling spool,
by what lake's edge or pool
are we cut off? Mom, don't die just yet!
But swan-song grace enticed romance -
hunting for love, I fancied my flame
puffed himself up for a mating dance,
not his swanlike flight. Forlorn, hoped I may
delight men's eyes when I awoke some day
from this moribund still-life,
rippling willows and azure sky
still as silken lining. At dusk
the wake of gliding swans cleansed my eye -
comfort when I feel dismay
to find they have flown away.