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the homely duckling
Slowly, upon the pond’s dim mirror,
the homely duckling drifts,
its feathers mottled, its cry unremarkable,
yet the water receives it as though it were a crown.
No whiteness gleams, no purity shines,
only the patient weight of survival,
the ripples widening like circles of time,
embracing the awkward pilgrim in their silent hymn.
O humble creature, mocked by reeds and wind,
you carry in your breast the secret of becoming.
The sky bends low to watch your passage,
the sun lays its hand upon your back.
And when evening gathers its violet robe,
the duckling, still ungainly,
is lifted by the unseen grace of water,
and the world whispers:
not beauty, but endurance,
not swan-song, but steadfastness,
is the true music of the soul.
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