Of Swans, and Love, and Such Things

How long do you have to read and reread a poem before it shares its truth with you? For a poem that holds promise, as long as it takes. In this case, three years.

 

 

Swans* (by Mary Oliver)

They appeared
   over the dunes,
     they skimmed the trees
       and hurried on

to the sea
   or some lonely pond
     or wherever it is
       that swans go,

urgent, immaculate,
   the heat of their eyes
     staring down
       and then away,

The thick spans
   of their wings
     as bright as snow,
       their shoulder-power

echoing
   inside my own body.
     How coud I help but adore them?
       How could I help but wish

that one of them might drop
   a white feather
     that I should have
       something in my hand

to tell me
   that they were real?
     Of course
       this was foolish.

What we love, shapely and pure
   is not to be held,
     but to be believed in.
       And then they vanished, into the unreachable distance.

 

 

*From Evidence, Poems by Mary Oliver (2009)