I heard the Mourning Dove again,
For the first time in eight years,
I smelled the dewdrops on the grass,
Watched it mingle with my tears.
A somber morning on my own,
The sun for once not shining,
I heard the Mourning Dove again,
It's song, like mine, of pining.
I felt the damp earth on my knees,
The grass between my fingers,
A breath robbed from me by the breeze,
An aching pain that lingers,
I wished for years to share this day,
With you and a cup of coffee,
But now I sit and listen instead,
To the Mourning Dove inside me.
To think I traded what we had,
In search for something new,
To think I thought I'd ever learn,
To live, to love, without you.
Still I see the Venusian flight,
Of the stronger winged creatures,
And see you leave forevermore,
For brighter, warmer features.
I feel the frost bite into me,
I feel the regret confiding,
The Mourning Dove is nesting soon,
And its song echoes inside me.
I brace for a cruel winter,
I feel the sting of your absence,
I feel the impact of the floor,
My wings, like the morning frost, shattering.
I heard the Mourning Dove again,
I heard it calling to me,
I heard its song between the trees,
And within, your name resounding.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection
PoetryA simple collection of my poetry, some gathered from old notebooks and some bespoke writings for this collection. There is something of a narrative, loosely speaking, that could be constructed here, with recurring mentions of places and unnamed cha...
