Eli Spivakovsky


Corps of Wet Doves


In the sun, the down on birds is luminous,
In the daisyfields, parachutes capture the glow of summer like papillion nets breathing oxygen and light.
Falling to earth, resuscitated by a strong breeze,
they flutter in their whitest silk like
an over-bloomed lily and call for more breeze
later still like
a late-blooming frangipani.

They are bridal canopies becoming sacronsanct
when finally touching the earth as its witnesses,
they are like bridal dresses caught in the branches of trees.

It's possible that they have become over-qualified
Parachuters today, outgrowing their cocoon
to join the Corps of Wet Dove and White Eagle.

Out of white dove nests - to sky dazed
out of a white roselet womb - to heaven comforted.

To think that they will become bed sheets and hair heirlooms to the ones who live here.
And to think the ones who don't live here,
having assessed the Earth's transition,
have no intention of parachute silk binding their gypsy hands.

In the sun, the down on birds is luminous,
the parachutes are raindrops of alabaster.
From the blue globe,
the clear water,
the heaven between the heavens
where they have all given permission to fall.

Submitted: Monday, June 10, 2013
Edited: Thursday, November 07, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

In honour of the gypsies/Roma who served in WW2

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