Warren Falcon (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Now that day has come

I reach for the sketch

numinous in its plain

simple gesture -


straightforward humble Valentine of

the offered bird, embraced,

not captured.


Another dawn blizzard empties last crystals,

draws heavy curtains tighter -


shut out the City, the light.


Sudden the mourning dove sings

patient between notes as if

reading music, whole notes,

minor keys, long pauses -


Repeat.


How I have needed to hear the song dove again,

feel the companion tree, climb up to,

and embraced would be by wind swayed

soothed a boy away from the brown

house on the high hill of the dark wood-


sorrow is of that home made still.


I dare not open the curtain for fear of losing the dove.


Later see a few crests of down

pressed in snow pure upon the escape,

calligraphed signature of tiny feet,

little gestures of affection left

upon the metal grate -


names I cannot pronounce but only sing.