One Is The Loneliest Number

In the distance, by the lake's edge,
beneath the day's twilight, the water
echoes a calm feeling.
The cob and his pen float in rhythm,
unattached from the world,
as their plumes stay dry.

As I watch the vivid creatures waltz
with beauty and grace, my thoughts
recall a room full of lilies,
and the drama of a wedding dress.

In the morning, they rise into the silent air,
my inflamed heart, not able to test
their flight, soars to a distant time and place,
once more, pondering whether
this will be the last migration.