“Swans,” New Era, Jan.–Feb. 1981, 64
Swans
The stillness, feathered in the hush of trees,
Should have carried our voices on the mist
To where they swam, figurines on glass, and
Turned them to us; easy as you turned to me
When we first met. Instead they swam away.
Sometimes they come in shades of lilac gray
As dusky as a winter’s setting sun
To cross my lake in dreams. They bring a hush
From that cold lake where they once swam,
Where we loved once, and once I turned away.