White swans
The fleeting memories of a life I left behind
Their wings are torn and moth-bitten
And I can’t quite make out their faces
Their long white necks seem to lead to nothing
Black blurs of a long-forgotten time
I weep, desperate for the memories to return
But the swans are gone
And I, a new person.
I lay in the grass
A bed of roses all around me.
The butterflies-
Blue, with black tips
-They land in the flowers
And begin to drink.
And that's when it happens.
That's when I fall into you.
Into the endless
Forever expanding
You.
Although so distant,
Although so vague,
You pull me in
And lull me away.
There are doves outside my window.
A male one, at least
I hear him every morning, crying like an owl (mourning dove's calls are often mistaken for an owl's hoot, you see)
He calls out to find a mate before spring comes to a close
Spring.
Oh, spring. It was last spring the last time the mourning doves called, looking for their mates.
It was last spring they comforted me with their sad coos, as you'd left me at that time, too.
The mourning doves leave every winter; they fly south to where it is warm- but always do they return to my window in the spring.
Singing their song once again.
They comfort me as I beg for you to return, too- but they are all aware that people just don't hoot.