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Looking For Doves Hunting and pecking far above where the hell is around every informed flecking all of you what are you doing? you sit in on an invisible trellis hidden from my silent cries upon and above stones throw and below blue skies searching with hollow bones what are you cooing? and why do I know? how can you bring that smile that reaches up into my eyes and down upon any page a dove means love, -without tears- at any age how many years since I learned to surprise with your own call one deep breath without a beak ringing my mind as the bell is to sing and speak in your bird play in your own hall another floor I passed on my way down the long drop, where my well is |
Additional Notes:
Inspired by Regina M. Heller's poem "Beneath the Stone Sill" from thepoeticlink.com. Thanks Regina! Regis, Regina, Regis, Regina, heh... well, for this one, your poem was an excellent jumping off place for me.
I can do a dove call with my hands quite well, and I am used to hearing one, and then responding over and over. I usually cannot see the birds, up in the trees around my house, but it's great fun anyway. Your poem made me think of how special and happy I feel when I do this. It's like a little private thing I can do that is a bit of a secret communique between me and the birds...
This poem is not as good as yours, Regina, so I hope you won't mind.
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