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.