The feathers white are out of sight.
It’s ugly brown and nothing’s right.
And as it waddles, it’s uptight.
To take the plunge
or to expunge the record
of its darkling days.
Not knowing where it’s going
if it’s raining or it’s snowing.
This swan is us not put to use,
in this wide world we are obtuse.
Too dense to sink, we like to think
we know which way that we are going.
One fine day we reach the pond.
no longer duckling son or daughter,
just a part of all the water.
Our beauty is as beauty does
and we’ve got feathers now, not fuzz!
And so our waddling had its time
beyond the ken of reason’s rhyme.
We see ourselves in water clear
and our beauty does appear.