Dove

At my mother's house,
the doves fly freely.

Where am I?

Coos call forth memories,
of far off grandmothers.

I arrive.

She swoops low,
her breast pale and plump.

She is all heart,
beating rapidly.

I want to hold
her shivering heat,
and fly.

She is my mother.

Nursing at her pale grey breast,
I will not take for granted the gift of flight.