I was washing the supper dishes,
and on the radio came “Swan Lake.”
Since I don’t dance, I conducted.
As I waved my dishcloth in time,
it dawned on me like slow winter sunrise
that Pyotr was himself a swan
trapped by his times in the form
of a bearded man.
If he lived today
he could dance in feathers and white satin,
caught and steadied by a beautiful prince.
No sorcerer would do him harm.
He would be full of grace and celebration.
And at the end, he would ascend
above the Lake, and shine.