The Poor Little Dove

The Poor Little Dove


To watch the wind play with the wave,

I sat on a bench by the museum garden pond.


Then a small pigeon came flying,

Landing to her feet, tiny and cute,


And stared up at me, a bit intensely,

Only blinking her eyes, with no other move.


She looked like a baby as a camera model,

Getting me to recall my infanthood picture.


I took some snaps, but found

She seemed not very pleased.


Want something to eat, dove?

I thought, not asked.


Want to talk, then, little dove?

I thought, not asked.


Her pretty eyes closed, I thought I saw;

She seemed somewhat sad, I felt like I felt.


The small bird now having flown away,

I remain alone on the pond-side bench,


And vaguely gaze to the waving water,

With a hidden sigh inside my corona-mask,


Regretting I'd had nothing to share

With that flown-away poor little dove.



◄ An afternoon's letter

Arrows of Rain ►


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