Poetry-Grey Dove

Soft and grey, on branch of evergreen.

Your voice low and mournful in the morning stillness.

Sweet peace, perhaps in your avian heart

As you call the filtering dawn’s rays by name.

What do you long for? Such simple things.

Shelter from the rain and wind.

A place to anchor your downy bed.

And a future for your nascent progeny.

Only the spare economy of winter fruit

And rare desert dewdrops concern your consciousness

If they concern it at all, as you thrill to fly

Over the rooftops of worried men.

Stacie Ferrante

2-26-10