Leland D'Elormie

Flight Of The Moonswan

In Ribbonwood's east end there lies a lake,
Where cat-tails every winter freeze in place,
And evergreens in Boreas' clutches shake,
And bright auroras dart in distant space,
And shimmering crystals gather on the dock,
Diverting moonlight in a flitting game,
Of stunning colors, rays of blue and red,
And others of a hue, as yet unnamed,
Go jumping to the window of the shed,
Which once was home to Lady Margot Vaughn,
A ninety year old hermitess, now dead,
And on the frozen lake there lives a swan,
Who, in her lifetime, Margot often fed.

She is no ordinary swan, nor was she born,
On any normal hour of any night,
For at that happy time the sky was torn,
By seven moons all casting silver light,
Or so the legend goes, but one thing's true,
And never did you see so strange a sight,
On Christmas Eve, she'll radiate the blue,
Of that same lunar, incandescent light,
Which on her day of birth lit and caressed,
The ground, the tress, the water and the reeds,
Of Juniper and cat-tail stalks and weeds.

Each year, as if predestined by the fates,
This fragile creature mounts the vaulted arcs,
Of silv'ry skyways and celestial straights,
And showers all the lake with icy sparks.
It's even said that she glides down below,
And lands atop the little shed on shore,
And uses all the light with which she glows,
To peer into the windows and the door.
She seeks her friend, old Margot in the dark,
But finds that she's alone again each year,
And every Christmas Eve, she leaves a mark,
The splashes of a single, silver tear.

So readers, never doubt that you're loved back,
If even by the animals you feed,
For friendship grows from such a simple act,
Whole forests grow from nothing but a seed,
And never doubt the bond or feel regret,
When you are gone, so many won't forget.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, March 12, 2013

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