I talk
about swans
in the obscuring haze of dawn.
My fear overhangs like a willow
thin-leafed,
stock-still
and trembling.
White swan,
black swan,
I mock you from a distance,
light myself afire to scare you
but I
betray myself
in brilliance.
I bring
you bread,
my poems, my hair, my jewelry
despite myself, I reach for you
and feel
you flying
through me.
A trinet poem for Sunday Muse #186 "illusion"