song of the white dove
the white dove came again….
i love how she sits far back
in the black, tangled branches
of that wild oak tree –
she glows through the falling darkness,
a phantom of herself….
she used to frighten me,
appearing unannounced
at nightfall….
you’re not from around here, are you?
i thought at her,
that first night….
i’ve tried to make up all kinds of stories
about why she visits when she does….
a harbinger of death?
of change?
but every day changes and dies —
as do we….
her song differs
from those of the mourning doves
that have surrounded me
since birth –
(my father taught me their song)
softer than theirs,
it floats featherlike, unmournful….
it curls
wispy
tender
wraithlike
(holy….)
we have watched each other
for years now….
through black ash
and endless smoky grey –
we are dual-captured
by blue-white
myriad starfields —
(our secret)
and still,
her song stops me midstep
midbreath
midquestion —
like an incognito
gasp of surprise….
then i recall an elder’s words
and realize:
she sings
not as a warning of death,
but as an
encouragement
to keep dying….
_____________
©2012
beth anne boardman
