In the water, the swan…with its show of
alabaster feathers, sculpted neck, beak
of mandarin, and black Venetian mask…
is a creature of serene gliding grace. But
when the swan leaves the water, it leaves
all grace behind. No longer in its element,
the swan on land is ungainly, flat-footed,
tight-hipped, and heavy-forward-tipped.
I recognize myself in that awkward, dry-
walking swan. Some long ago, I left the
pond I knew, leaving behind any grace
I knew, urged toward some distant pond
I didn’t know and couldn’t name. I had
to make the trip, but with no map, no
destination, and my wings clipped, I am
ill-equipped for a cross-country trip. All
webfoot-webfoot, worthless-wing,
waddling, bulky walk, awkward thing.
A water creature struggling in dryness,
seemingly aimless, I forget I am a swan,
that I ever had grace. The familiar is far
behind me, but am I getting any closer
to what I don’t know? I am wearied,
utterly. A cry escapes me.
It is the sound of…a swan.
I stop quiet still fully sensing.
I know now…wait…the wind will rise,
bringing with it the scent of water, leading
me from where I was to where I need to go.
Ann L. Keiffer
December, 2014
Thank you to Rainer Marie Rilke and David Whyte
for the swan metaphor and such inspiration
Image: Google
