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Subterranean

The Swan

No matter the hour
of night or day,
she's there--always
at one shaded bank
of the pond
or the other.
Always alone.
Once, it almost frightened me--
she was in the center,
not a ripple on the lake,
not her mate,
nor another wading bird in sight--
so regal and pure, and unharmed,
so unafraid, it seemed,
of solitude,
so sure.
Imagine, desire gone,
no longer essential.
Not touch, perhaps one luxury--
memory--to sustain her.