Dove

    Perhaps I knew she was there,
perched on the wrought iron urn in the garden,
and so I went carefully down the broken steps to watch her
      survey the debris
            for the wisps of wood she'll weave
            with her quick beak. How does she

know so much? The precise moment to lift into the shaft
      of wind is some part of her
      already, even as we both sit quietly waiting,
and that turn on the farthest tip of her pivoting wing has almost
      already happened as we patiently wait;
then a few bits of straw blow from the neighbor's raised

bed of lilies, and her wings glide open to gather the measure
            of air which lifts her as she turns toward
                  the part of wall she'll weave
together, so that it seems the straw in her beak, and her gentle
            climb past the redbud and over the brick wall
                  is a form of rapture in the world.
.

Copyright © 2003 Virginia Slachman All rights reserved
from Heidegger's Temple
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Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission