It was the song of a swan I heard falling
in mist over the harbor after the ice broke
leaving the shattered pattern of a spilt goblet,
its long neck still, after splintering the air.
And the swan herself mingled with faints
of water flowing as the ice shrank
the edges of that strange harbor so empty
except for glass and a long unbroken silence,
others having left, holding their coats by thumbs
over their shoulders as the quiet echoed
over their footsteps as if the harbor pond
could be forgotten or left to merely happen.
But the song had been my own so many years
I knew I would know it when it came for me.
1 February 2014