Tuesday, April 28, 2015

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.

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