If it was swans I cannot know for certain,
whose thousand wingbeats late that autumn night
lay round about the house and sang their flight,
subsiding only with dawn’s lifted curtain.
Throughout the day I walked as one elected,
as if I had been brushed by angels’ wings.
How many sleepless nights have there been since
when not one single wingbeat was detected?
Uplifted thus but once, there’s every reason
to let the sun again now call the tune:
the waxing and the waning of the moon,
the coming and the passing of the seasons.