A well-known trail sits just behind

The street that we live on,

And at the bottom, you can find

A path to reach a pond.

And there, upon her rightful throne,

A swan swims soft and slow,

Where in her home, she lives alone,

This swan, I've come to know.

Her slender neck and feathered wings

Attire is pure and white,

Small eyes like beads; their sharpness brings

Her sight in day or night.

I watch her gentle, graceful glide,

With burdens not revealed,

Her regal ruse still seems to hide

A loneliness concealed.

What’s covered up by beauty’s gift?

Has calmness killed her fight?

Do troubles drown beneath her drift?

Will she again take flight?

A natural need to mate for life,

I fear her mate’s passed on.

She glides along this pond in strife,

A lovely lonely swan.

But take no pity on this queen,

Her strength she cannot mask,

Beneath the water's tranquil sheen,

She's surging with a task.

The stillness in her wandering,

As ripples rise, I wonder,

Her poise provokes a pondering

Of fervent efforts under.

Some things are not as they appear,

Some surfaces hide battles,

To simply sit on ponds, swans bear

A need for frantic paddles.

When troubles come, stay on the path- 

Think of our existence,

If everyone had just one half

Of a swan's persistence.