White Swans

White Swans

...I saw twelve angels wheeling in the sun, rays of white wings and gold light. "Swans!" —Maxine Hong Kingston

Pull me into the white swans
streaming
grace, grace and grace.

Let me be simply
a poet watching
from the shore
a wedge of white swans
floating
on slate
November water.

Let this be

a release of longing.

I fall into nothing
just this
the perfect swans.

Pull me into the gray
where everything
is waiting for me
the stillness,
running light tracing a shoreline.

My longing is without a wish,

It's a plastic bag tangled
on a branch blowing
in the wind never sturdy
with the
trembling
bones of pleasure.

Let me lay

in the reeds
and grasses
arms of soft mercies
their hollow
whistle of blessings.

Here on solid land
I try my best to be free
from closed
tumbling in my
steel basket of belief.

This morning
I look out to the waters
hungry,
longing, hoping,
the white swans will
unfold
themselves and

scoop me

up

into a flight of surrender
into the icy air

away

from the storm
of your
death.