i watch swans at seven-thirty

I have found that ponds set swans at ease,
at peace, however surely,
between the stalks of their webbed feet,
little pockets of yesterday dwell
like little limps waiting
to grow into mess.

And how foolish, to hide
shivers ‘neath waters,
where change makes its home,
where the sudden emergence of furtive self-doubt
makes itself readily evident
in the ripples, and yet,

how content, how curious
their comfort reflected in waves.

Perhaps, to be a pond
— like any good pond
where lilies and swans
would want to reside —
is not such an easy thing.

Yet for swans that found
their calming spring,

I only watch swans
every day —

they tend to stay.

— A. P.

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