Today's poem is by Peter Everwine
In a corner under the eaves
of the porch, a nesting dove
the same returning dovetosses
a few dry weeds, willy-nilly,
into the prevailing wind, then waits
for them to fall in place. Some do.
Because I mean her no harm
she allows me to draw close
to her precarious balcony.
I bid her good morning,
she cocks her head at me and blinks
two old familiars who share
a moment of dappled light falling
on the peaceable kingdom
of the front porch.
This morning, a light drift
of feathers on the lawn
and the day's expectations sour.
Each spring this dumb show of events
repeats itself: a nest abandoned, another
plundered by crow or jay, eggs
spilled from their thatch, an inch
of blue flesh, like a maimed thumb,
drying in the sun.
Does the dove, in its season,
despite its plaintive moan, learn nothing?
And I, in mine? I fetch the paper
from the lawn, people drive by
to another day of work.
Nothing is brought to completion.
Later I'll sweep away the nestempty,
again, of everything but a blind
belief in the possible.
Copyright © 2014 Peter Everwine All rights reserved
from Listening Long and Late
University of Pittsburgh Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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