And sudden from the overgrown,
a sense of frightened flight —
reclusive wing rises to it
then settles back
to withholding,
unaware how we wield words
and the winding of strings.

The mute swan sits her nest,
and a warbling
again gives you away.
We still have long eyes.
And we still know
where the risk is too steep.
We climb alone,
a union of effort.

Wind across water
waves cattails
as if to say,
So here you are.
We’d been wondering.
And it moves
more subtle too —

in graying eyes
and bones that settle themselves
like hidden birds
to wait,
to accept —
what purpose,
what pain and pleasure
it brings.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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