A solitary dove
Lies underneath strewn leaves.
Black and blue —
It has fallen from great heights.
A closer look:
Is it yet alive?
A stir:
Its feet yet kick;
Chest rises feebly.
O bystander!
You will be forgiven
Leaving it for dead.
But enter a moment into the mind
Of this delicate bird:
“I have fallen from lofty places,
I will sit in the bruising
And wait for my healing.”
Memories of clouds seep in:
The boundless infinite.
Still, the dove lays more and more still.
In two days it was dead.
Alas! The delicate wings fly not again.
And like so many of us
Bigger and wiser humans,
We wait,
And wait,
For healing that does not come.
