the mourning dove (for Patton)

At first light, I turn my head

towards an open window

and listen to the dove’s lament.

I know his pain. I know his cry.

 

He weeps in such a way

that makes me wish

I could answer,

but only God or another dove

can heed that call.

 

I turn my head away from the window,

pull warm covers back over my ears

and wait for him to fly away.

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