So Many Ways To Fly Poem by Cat Singh

It's 12-2-22, and there are angel numbers
like bent-necked swans
in the backwater pools of my mind.
My life is so vacant these days.
I can hardly tell the difference
between the morning
when I check the mailbox for letters
and the night when I check the mailbox again
just in case.

I can hardly tell the difference
between one blank
computer paper day and another.
But today there are swans swimming in a row
on my wristwatch where the date should be.
Some of them are in love with each other,
and others of them are just in love in general.
They say swans mate for life.
I wonder why they'd do such a thing
when they could instead mate for one day
(one beautiful angelic day
with wings spread as if a God made them
and pinned them in place)
and then move on to another love
tomorrow.

If each day could be different,
wouldn't that be such a beautiful thing?
If I am a swan today,
could I be a butterfly tomorrow?
Could I wake up as another winged thing
each morning until I have flown at every altitude,
known grief and hope,
and curled up my appendages
in each specific way
they are meant to curl?