The Poor Little Dove

The Poor Little Dove/Michael Kwack


To watch the wave play with the wind,

I sat by the museum garden pond.


Then a small pigeon came flying,

Landed to her feet, tiny and cute,


And stared up at me, a bit intensely,

Only blinking her eyes, no other move.


She was standing like a camera model,

And I recalled my infanthood pictures.


I started taking some photos of her,

But she seemed not very pleased.


Wanna eat something, dove?

I thought, but not said.


Wanna say something, little dove?

I thought again, but not said.


For I didn't have cookies even in crumbs,

And couldn't speak with my heavily shut mouth.


I thought I saw her pretty eyes closed,

And even felt she looked somewhat sad.


Yet I continued shooting, because it was

The only thing I could do for the little bird.


Now she's flown away, leaving me alone

Still on the quiet pond-side bench.


Only gazing toward the waveless water,

I sigh a hidden sigh in my white Covid mask.


◄ a secret note

Arrows of Rain ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message