Message To A Widow
In a small, protected inlet of the evening pond,
loud white in a strong shaft of final, flaming sun,
one swan lies on quiet water,
(not the two of daily habit),
head buried into breast,
asleep on the movement of a gentle swell.
It is as though this radiant path of sun
were heaven sent
with rich and gold effulgence,
the aloneness of this harbored, newly single bird.
And to reveal to the newly-widowed woman
from the house above the pond,
(no longer “theirs”, she says, now only “hers”),
that solitude can bring
with its sober beauty.
Watching the sun fade,
she sits in the growing dusk,
her hair as white as the swan’s feathers.
— Margaret H. Freydberg