in the golden light of ponds
glide a pair of teethed swans
terrible in graceful white
gods above a liquid aether
slicing through reflected light

water lilies' roots hang down
like an unseen fibrous crown
grasping what is real beneath, their
hands of beauty and of sleight
steady as a mystic tether

i cannot deny two worlds;
surface ripples are a dirge
for a mayfly meeting night
or a tadpole in rebirth, her
forming eyes sense golden light