The Witch

She knows

She steps

on the grass

learned

and learning

the witch

of the waters

 

A raven, she saw

gathering sticks

and smooth pebbles

 

How do you do, dear raven?

 

To which it replied

“My heart it flutters,

it has been split in three;

one for myself

and one for my people

the other

she took from me”

 

Was it the swan? she asked

The one so gentle

skittish

and free?

The one who visits

the lake but leaves

no trace?

 

The raven

circled

“The swan,” it said,

“I know not much of her

but what I know

I know

so, so clearly”

 

And the witch,

taking pity

offers out her palms

 

I will sing to you

of swans

dear raven

 

a swan

is not a swan if she does

not float on waters

on rivers

on sweet mirror-lakes

it is her fate

and necessarily yours

that you wait

 

Do not neglect

the concerns of your household

dear raven

a swan

is not a swan if she does

not spin in your fancies

and bitersweet longing

a creature she is

of daydreams

and flowers

flowers, my dear

not of earth

but of heart

 

dear raven

this swan

is not a swan if she does

not dither and doubt

for what greater honor

is there

than to tame a wandering heart?

be greatful

her smile her wile

her loving touch

cold though

as they

may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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