So tired she was of life's great burden. She felt cursed by the morning light that fumbled and crept its way across an otherwise pitch black room until it lay curled up and undefeated on the edges of her bed like a harsh morsel of reality. It drove her to wake early and ponder how life had turned her down this path, made her feel so alone and breathless in an unstable world.
But as the sun rises, so does she, pulling the morning out of her hair - guiding him to school while avoiding the lost stares of vacant mothers in the playground. She believes in hope and wisdom, kindness and courage, compassion and truth. All these noble things will keep her alive, much longer than any celebration of science or medicine.
Thoughts rise and fall with a rainy afternoon. Moon beds and shiny surfaces, lost encounters in southern France. The touch of a lovers hand at dusk.
A black swan by the side of the lake. Alone.
She reaches out her hand to it and it reluctantly raises its head from its position buried in furtive sleep in its feathery shelter. It is curious, but not easily fooled. Her hand is tiny and child like, the merest crumb in her palm. The swan fetches it with disdain and quickly returns its head to rest with a silent sigh.
Black swan. I remember you. On lonely nights, your face is clear to me. On nights of passion, I fall asleep with my head tucked away like yours was.
A black swan. Alive and not dead but charged with the possibility of both.
